Breathe
by Ellynne
Summary: Most of the town has forgotten Gold has a wife. She was attacked and left for dead five years before. Now, even the thought of leaving their house terrifies her-till the day a stranger with a knife breaks in.
1. The Body in the Closet

**WARNING:** The Regina in this is the cold-blooded, evil Regina from season one without any of the hints of a kinder person hiding deep inside.

X

 _Breathe,_ Isabel told herself as she tried to shrink further into the dark corner of the closet, hidden behind coats and the vacuum cleaner. _Breathe._

She should run. She knew that. She should have gone out the back door when she had the chance. Or there was the basement. She could have gone down there and out the cellar door, grabbing one of the old shovels to use as a weapon in case he caught up with her.

But, she _couldn't._ She had lost precious seconds just thinking about it, feeling the terror curling up in her, like cold lead oozing along her guts, freezing her in place. Her cat, Wee Jock, had twined back and forth around her feet, the way she did when Isabel was nervous, waiting to see which way she would run.

Then, she could hear him coming. Isabel glanced at the curtained window. It was safe out there. She _knew_ it was safe. She could run away—down the street—to a neighbor's. But, the thought choked her, made her want to scream. She dove into the closet instead, Wee Jock on her heels. Her hands shook, but long practice let her close the door quietly. Finding her way in the dark was just as easy. How many times had she done this?

Isabel curled up into the dark, the cat pressed against her. The only part that was hard was being quiet. Fear wrapped around her so hard, she wanted to sob, she wanted to hold still, not even breathing, till she had to gasp for air, giving herself away.

Instead, she forced herself to breathe. It was one of the few useful things Dr. Hopper had been able to teach her. Breathe slowly. Count as she drew it in. Count as she let it out. Make her body go through the motions of being calm and she would become calm. Calmer. A little calmer.

That's what she told herself as her heart hammered against her chest so hard she thought she might just as well be screaming.

Outside, she heard the man's footsteps stop. The doorknob began to turn.

XXXXX

Isabel had started the day with the dream of the black ring. It was one of the many things she never told Dr. Hopper about. The little trust she'd had for him had died long before she could have mentioned it.

Obsidian, that was what she imagined it was. She'd seen an obsidian mirror in a museum, once. That was what the ring was like. Dark and cold, it gave back a shadowed image of the world. Sliding down her finger, it had cut her to the bone, scattering beneath her skin like glass needles. She could feel them slicing through her veins, following the flow of blood back to her heart.

She'd had nightmares often enough as a child, no surprise there. But, the ring was new. It had started only when she moved to Storybrooke. If she had still been in Boston—or any place where there was a therapist who wasn't Dr. Hopper—she might have gone to one to hear what they had to say.

Or, if she were still in Australia and Mum and Dad were still alive, she could have told them. They would have listened, she thought. And, somehow, they would have understood what the dream meant, the fears she was trying to explain to them when she didn't understand them herself.

A pale hand with long, thin fingers reached for hers. She was like a rag doll, unable to fight back, terrified but powerless to move, to stop it from happening. Till the ring was shoved on her hand, till it bit into her skin, eating its way to her heart.

Dr. Hopper, already filling up his notes under Mayor Mills thoughtful gaze, would have asked other questions, questions that had only to do with what the mayor wanted to hear and nothing at all with the truth. As it was, lying in the hospital bed, full of drugs that barely managed to touch the pain, she had already said too much.

Later, she'd seen some of the things he'd written when she tried to describe the attack. He'd made a transcript of his questions and her answers. "Lying" was written next to several of them, although he'd usually included a question mark, so there was that.

"Izzy," Dr. Hopper said (not "Ms. Lacey" or even "Isabel," even though they'd never spoken and he had to consult a chart before he called her anything at all. She supposed Mayor Mills had filled it out). "What can you tell us about your attacker?"

"I didn't see him," Isabel said. She was getting so tired of saying it, to the people who found her, to the EMTs, to the doctors and nurses, to the sheriff, and now to Dr. Hopper. "He came up behind me. I didn't see him."

That was in the notes. Mayor Mills mocking, disbelieving, "Oh? She didn't see him?" wasn't.

She'd heard the whispers conversations as she was coming in and out of consciousness.

 _Sneaking out to The Rabbit Hole when she's supposed to be watching the boy, that's what the mayor says._

 _Lives for a thrill. Always getting into trouble._

 _The sheriff never arrested her, didn't want to cause the mayor trouble._

 _Dropped out of college, you know._

 _Kicked out, that's what I heard._

 _Can't think why Regina ever hired her._

 _She told a pack of lies to get hired so she wouldn't be deported._

 _Drinking._

 _Drugs._

 _Self-inflicted. It's not the first time. Making up crazy stories._

"She can't stay here," Mayor Mills said. "You agree, don't you, Dr. Hopper?"

"Without a job, she'll be deported," Dr. Hopper said, a rare note of protest in his voice. "Storybrooke's the only home she has."

"Then, she should have thought of that before this happened," Regina said, sounding smug. "She'll have to leave town as soon as she's able. I can't have her around Henry anymore. The sooner she's gone, the better."

Black chains choked her into silence. Obsidian blades dug into her heart.

No, she would never trust Dr. Hopper with the truth.

XXXXX

That morning, she had kept twisting the wedding band on her finger. It was a dark, warm gold. It had an odd pattern, like the stalks of dry grass she used to try to make into dolls (unsuccessfully, for the most part). It wasn't black and cold. Just knowing it was there, feeling its warmth against her skin, helped steady her.

She didn't mention the dream to anyone, not her husband, not even Wee Jock. Her husband (not that he would ever admit it) had brought the stray home in a moment of raw charity. _He_ said it had managed to slip into the house when he came home from work. But, _she_ had seen him cradling it in his arms as she peeked out the front curtains.

Just looking outside made her heart hammer. But, it was even worse, waiting inside, hearing a car drive up, not knowing who it was. Oh, it was _supposed_ to be her husband. At this time of evening, it was _always_ her husband. She _knew_ it would be him.

There's been a time when she hadn't worried about the people walking past her or behind her—especially behind her—in Storybrooke. She'd known all the faces even if she didn't always know all the names or give them more than a quick hello.

Mayor Mills had hired her as a nanny when Henry was just a baby. The entire town was scared stiff by the mayor. Isabel had taken a certain enjoyment back then at how respectfully people had treated her, quite a change from the life of a struggling grad student. No one wanted to get on the mayor's bad side, and that meant treating her son—and anyone who happened to be taking care of him—like royalty, and not the wave-gently-as-the-royal-carriage-goes-by sort. This was good, old fashioned, off-with-their-heads terror.

Then, one night, the mayor had sent her out to get milk at the grocery.

She'd never made it.

Voices hissed in her memory. _She was asking for it._

 _She lied. None of it happened._

 _Slut._

Isabel practiced her breathing, trying to throw off the memories. She gave the cat some. She peeked out windows, trying not to panic at the sight of the world out there, careful never to be seen. Even her husband, who was the only person who seemed to remember there was something more than a ghost living alongside him in this house, never caught her.

On good days—and days that started with the dream were never good—Isabel coped. She fed the cat. Then, she cleaned up the few dishes left over from breakfast and tidied the house, not that it ever needed much tidying. Her husband was meticulous. Dust ran from him the way everything else in this town did.

Even Mayor Mills.

She might read. She might spend time in the greenhouse. It wasn't a normal greenhouse. Those weren't made with stone and frosted glass that let in the light but nothing more. The glass was set with wire mesh and reinforced with thick, steel bars. She felt almost as safe there as she did in the rest of the house. On good days.

On bad days, she could feel the rest of the world reaching out for her. She was naked, helpless, about to be torn apart. She ran out of the greenhouse, gasping for breath, slamming the door shut behind her and trying to keep her hands steady as she set all the locks.

On very bad days . . . well, that's what the closet was for.

She would curl up, hidden in the dark, out of sight and out of mind, practicing her breathing till she felt safe again.

She wasn't supposed to hear someone driving up to the house. Her husband always called if he came home early. _Always._ But, that didn't mean it couldn't be him, she told herself. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he'd tried to call on the way home and found his cell phone needed to be recharged. Maybe—maybe—

She carefully peeked out, and saw the man coming towards her home. It wasn't her husband.


	2. The Wrong Word

_Isabel was five years old and running as fast and far as she could across the great, open spaces. But, when she turned around, she knew the farmhouse would still be there. It was one of the things she'd loved since coming to live with Mum and Dad. No matter hard she ran, she never reached the horizon and, no matter how far she went, she was never out of sight of home._

 _She turned back to look, happy and confident, and saw nothing. The house wasn't there. She turned around, sure she was just looking at the wrong place, but the world was empty. There was nothing, no buildings, no sheep, no yellowed grass._

 _At the edge of the world, where sky met earth, the blue began to darken. At first, she thought it was storm coming in. But, these weren't clouds. The light was going out. Darkness spread, like ink spilled on paper. It began to move, a living thing. And it was coming for her._

 _She looked for somewhere to run, someplace to hide, but there was nothing. She was alone, trapped in the great emptiness with no one to save her._

Isabel Lacey, age twenty-eight, woke up and opened her eyes. Or tried to. They were still swollen nearly shut. She couldn't manage more than tiny slits. The room she was in was dark, but the door was open to the hall. Enough light came in for her to see she was still in hospital.

Outside, she could hear the voice of the mayor. Words came to her in snatches. ". . . .Won't cooperate with Sheriff Graham or Dr. Hopper. . . . You can see what a problem she's been. . . . bad influence on Henry. . . . The sooner she's gone the better. . . ."

Sheriff Graham. She remembered trying to answer his questions, not that they'd made much sense. He kept asking about _The Rabbit Hole_ and if she'd met anyone there.

She hadn't been to _The Rabbit Hole._ She'd been going to get milk at Tom Clark's store but she never made it.

It had been late, and the store was closing soon. But, Isabel hadn't been worried. This was Storybrooke, not Boston. Everyone new everybody—and everyone knew the young nanny who worked for the mayor. There was no one in the town who would give her a hard time.

No one except the mayor herself.

". . . . really better if we got rid of her. . . ." she heard Regina say before walking away.

X

Isabel Gold, age thirty-three hid in the corner of her closet as the door opened. She pressed back against the wall and stopped breathing. Even Wee Jock, with an animal's instinct to know when a predator was near, held still.

"She's not here," the man said. Was there someone else with him? Or was he talking on a cell phone?

A pause, followed by, "Maybe she's not here. Maybe she's not as homebound as Gold thinks. Or maybe he killed her and buried her in the basement." An earthy laugh. "Saves me the trouble." Another pause. "Fine, I'll keep looking. But, I'm telling you, she's gone.

He closed the door and walked away. Slowly, Isabel began to breathe again.

X

Isabel had always liked Graham. He was one of the few people in town who would talk to her without the frightened, nervous look most people in town had, as if they expected the mayor to suddenly appear, looking over her shoulder. He had looked guilty and a little confused as he questioned her in her hospital room, as if he knew how nonsensical he sounded but couldn't find any other words to say.

Exhausted and in pain, her brain fogged with drugs, each word Isabel said felt like lifting a load of heavy stones. She hadn't had the energy left over to think about what was wrong with Graham. It wasn't till Dr. Hopper was questioning her (again), telling her how to breathe when it got too hard, that she saw some of what he was writing and understood.

"That's not what happened," Isabel said.

Dr. Hopper managed to look sympathetic. The mayor, standing behind him, looked like a triumphant cat swallowing the last of the canary. "Izzy, after something like this, it's normal to deny—"

"I'm not denying anything!" The words came out quick and angry. "That's not what happened."

"Izzy—"

"The young lady's name is Isabel Lacey," a clipped, Scottish voice interrupted. " _Miss_ Lacey to you, Doctor."

"Mr. Gold," Dr. Hopper said. "This is a private discussion. Doctor-patient privilege—"

"—seems to have slipped your mind," Mr. Gold said. "Or is it your habit to have local government present during therapy sessions?"

The mayor bristled. "As _Izzy_ 's employer—"

"—you would still have no rights to breach doctor-patient confidentiality. Not that you're her employer. It's all over town you fired her. Or are you saying the stories aren't true?"

The mayor did her best to look regal. She was really quite good at it. "I could hardly keep her after this latest affair, Mr. Gold," she said coldly. "She's a bad influence on Henry."

 _Hardly keep her_ , Isabel thought. As if she were an animal, as if she were a sick sheep that needed to be put down before it infected the others at the station.

"Trying to get out of paying her hospital bills?" Gold asked dryly. "It's too late for that. She was on your payroll when this happened."

"Which is why I'm here," the mayor shot back. "She has no next-of-kin. With no one else, that leaves me—"

"Oh, I think you'll find your mistaken about that," Gold said. "As Miss Lacey's fiancé, I think you'll find there is someone else."

 _Fiancé?_ It must be a testament to whatever drugs they'd given her that Isabel searched her memory, wondering how she could have forgotten something like that. But, Mr. Gold shot Isabel a quick, anxious look. _Please, go along with this._

X

It hadn't taken Gold long after meeting Isabel to realize the number of people in town he could hold an intelligent conversation with had significantly increased. Of course, it was hard to gauge people's intelligence when they tended to run as soon as they saw him coming.

It was about a month after she came to town that they first met. They mayor, following Dr. Whale's advice, had kept Henry in and Isabel along with him. Then, the doctor declared his infant immune system ready for the great outdoors. Isabel was unceremoniously sent out the door, Henry strapped to her chest in a baby carrier, with a list of errands and orders to get Henry fresh air.

Storybrooke, of course, was like most New England towns. When they made the roads, they simply paved over the tracks the cows made; and, judging by the results, Gold had to seriously wonder what those early settlers had been feeding their cows. Disoriented and lost, Miss Lacey had washed ashore at his shop, anxious for directions.

He had looked over young Henry, glad he seemed to be doing well. If he were being honest with himself, Gold had to admit he had helped the mayor with her speedy adoption more for the challenge it represented than from any faith in her parenting skills. He didn't know all the details of the last time Regina had decided she should try parenting, when Owen Flynn and his father came through town, but he knew it had ended badly. With no awkward father already attached, Gold hoped Regina's mayfly interest might last this time, though he wasn't counting on it. He found it mattered to him whether or not he had done Henry any good.

In that respect, having a nanny was a good thing. Isabel had changed every diaper, soothed every cry, and endured every two a.m. feeding; and Regina had not run back to the adoption agency with sleep deprivation and buyer's remorse.

So, for Henry himself, Gold thought it was a good thing. For the nanny, he wasn't so sure.

"You were a student in Boston?" Gold asked.

Isabel nodded. "Working on my master's," she said. "I wanted—I want to become a librarian." She had the confused look Gold was used to seeing on people caught a little too close in Regina's orbit, as if they couldn't quite understand the decisions they'd made. "I . . . I suppose this will be a good break," she said. "For a little while. Till Henry's settled."

Gold, who had seen his share of "good breaks" and "little whiles" among the townsfolk, didn't comment. Perhaps, Miss Lacey would be the exception that proved the rule. Perhaps she would fight her way free of whatever web it was that no one in town ever seemed to escape, always putting off the hunt for something better for some distant tomorrow that, try as they might, never seemed to come.

That didn't stop him from seeing that Isabel's paperwork was all in order, a worker's visa quietly added to a stack of other papers.

He'd moved the conversation on to other things and found her quick witted and intelligent. When he made a double edged observation about the mayor, Isabel actually got it and laughed, a first in Gold's time in this town.

After that, she always stopped by the shop. They discussed small town gossip, the state of the world, their differences and similarities between growing up in the Outback and Glasgow, literature, and anything else that struck their fancy. He found a few, used books on child care he was able to pass onto her, along with a bits and pieces he'd picked up over the years on how to soothe a troubled child.

"I thought you were an only child," Isabel said. "And a bachelor. Confess. There's not a Mrs. Gold hidden somewhere with a half-dozen children, is there?"

There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she said it. Gold's heart skipped a beat. _Is she flirting with me?_

Of course not. He was forty-two and she was only twenty-three. He was old enough to be her father. And that comment about a Mrs. Gold and a half-dozen children, only a young person would say something like that, someone who took it for granted it couldn't possibly be true. Gold knew better than to ever ask a question like that of someone his own age, not unless he was prepared for the answer.

In this case, though, he could answer honestly enough. "No, there isn't. But, I grew up in tenement in Glasgow, families living practically on top of each other. I couldn't help but learn a few things to do." _And even more things not to do_ , he thought, remembering his old man. Though no reason to burden Isabel with any of that.

"I was an only child," Isabel said. "The nearest child younger than me was ten, no, fifteen miles away."

"If that's the case, I'm even more impressed with how well you're doing with Henry."

"Well, a baby lamb, a baby boy, there's not that much difference. And I've dealt with thousands of those," she joked. A little more seriously, she added, "And I did take some childcare classes when I first started university. I thought I might go into social work at one time, caring for orphans and so on. That was my first hands on experience with children. I worked at a state summer camp program for disadvantaged kids that summer. It was a wonderful experience, but I realized it wasn't what I wanted to give my life to.

"But, that's how I came to be caring for Henry when Regina came to get him. One of the counselors at the camp had gone on to work for an adoption agency. There was some kind of mix-up. The people who were supposed to be caring for him weren't available. It was late Friday and the counselor couldn't find anyone. He still had my contact information and was desperate enough to call me. Turned out my licensing was still valid, at least for an emergency, weekend placement."

Gold felt a twinge of guilt. Isabel wasn't a person to turn down a child in need, and but the real reason he'd called Isabel had likely been because she _wasn't_ a regular contact of the adoption agency. Henry's adoption was perfectly legal—Gold had done the paperwork himself and made sure of it—but the agency he'd used had had its share of more . . . questionable placements, placements Gold had made several references to, including names and a few dates, as he asked if there wasn't any way to speed things along. He'd played it very carefully. They weren't sure if he was threatening them with a federal investigation or his own, criminal contacts—or if he was just an innocent, amoral lawyer asking to be treated with the same speedy assistance as their past clients.

The terror and confusion he'd inspired had them cutting through so quickly there must have been burn marks. Then, Henry had arrived and they found themselves without any of the people they could trust not to ask awkward questions.

Enter Isabel, a woman they could leave Henry with for a few days with no awkward paperwork or other evidence to be held against them. It would have been fine, if not for Regina.

"How did the mayor convince you to work for her?" Gold asked.

"I—I don't really remember," Isabel said, looking uneasy. "She saw how I was with him. . . . And I—I think I needed a break from college. It—it just seemed like the right thing to do." She frowned, unable to throw off the feeling that something was _wrong._ "I'll be going back to finish," she said. "Someday. It's not as though I'll be spending the rest of my life here."

X

The gossip was all over town about the attack on Isabel Lacey. The story had Regina's fingerprints all over it. Overnight, the would-be-librarian, nanny, and long-suffering slave of Storybrooke's dictator for life had been transformed into a woman Ruby Lucas would have thought twice about associating with, always sneaking out and leaving Henry alone while she partied at The Rabbit Hole, till one of her anonymous hook-ups turned out to be more than she could handle.

Or maybe it was too much alcohol, some of them said. She'd fallen over, dead drunk, and been rushed to the hospital. The stories blossomed and grew, but always with the same theme. Whatever happened, it was Isabel's fault.

Gold had rushed to the hospital and found Regina already spinning her web. Dr. Hopper was pretending to listen to Isabel while writing down everything Regina told him. Graham's conscience might trouble for a while, but he would agree with whatever story Regina gave out.

As for Isabel herself, Gold felt a cold wave of fury when he saw her. This was Regina's doing. He knew it. No one in this town would have raised a finger against anyone under the mayor's protection—not unless the mayor herself had authorized it. But, even for Regina, this was vicious. Her face was so swollen, he barely recognized her. Both her eyes were black and blue. One was still swollen shut with stitches along the side. The bandages and casts were almost comical, like a scene from a comedy when a character was wrapped in too many bandages and casts for the injuries to be taken seriously anymore.

Except they were. Except they were real, and this was Isabel.

Looking at the smug, vicious look on Regina's face, Gold knew with cold certainty he had to cut off any power she had to hurt Isabel if he wanted her to live. It was an insane thought. Even most of the people in Storybrooke would have laughed, if a bit uneasily, at the thought. When pressed, they might have admitted Regina thought of herself as more a queen than a mayor. But, this was just a small town in Maine, not some lost kingdom in an adventure tale. People like Regina saw to it their enemies got extra parking tickets or never seemed to get legal approvals for building an extension. They didn't wind up beaten half to death with the mayor looking like she was working on the half.

So, he told the only lie he thought had a chance of driving out the mayor and her cronies.

It was a ridiculous story. Isabel Lacey was twenty-eight and he was forty-two. He could almost be her father. It was a wonder Isabel didn't start screaming in terror as soon as she heard them.

But, instead, she nodded. "That's right," she said. "He is."

Inwardly, Gold gave a sigh of relief, though he let none of it show on his face till Regina and her cronies were chased out.

He sat down by Isabel. He wanted to take her hand. But, one arm was in a cast, and two fingers on the opposite hand were splinted. He didn't dare touch her.

"It will be all right," he said in as comforting a voice as he could manage. "Trust me, it will be all right."

"Why?' Isabel said. "Why is this happening to me?"

"I don't know," Gold lied.

The truth was he had been expecting the worst since Henry Mills started kindergarten two weeks before. Regina had never been one to share anything she considered hers, and everyone in town had heard the story of what the little boy had said when Isabel came to pick him up after his first day.

"Hey, look!" he told the teacher. "There's my mom!"


	3. A Flaw in the Heart

Gold had no doubt Regina could kill someone for the pettiest reasons. Petty to most people, not to her. He would not be surprised to find out she already had.

But, when he'd arrived in hospital and heard her callously trying to destroy Isabel Lacey, his blood had boiled. He could see exactly what she was trying to do, casually destroy Isabel's life and throw her out with the trash.

Logically, he knew the worst Regina could manage was deportation. Even that might be difficult, with the right lawyer stepping in. But, he saw the cold, pleased look on Regina's face as she told her delicately phrased lies, and he knew that wasn't how it would play out. Regina would make it impossible for Isabel to continue living in Storybrooke. People would whisper behind her back, medical bills that should have been Regina's responsibility would go unpaid, and no one would hire her, assuming she was able to work with her injuries. Isabel would see her small savings dry up and disappear. She would leave town, and—

Gold's mind stopped there. The idea of Isabel leaving made him cold and sick inside. He knew— _knew_ —if Regina forced Isabel to leave Storybrooke, something terrible would happen to her. And Regina knew it. He could not be more certain of it than if he saw Regina walking up to Isabel and putting a gun to her head.

Or, he thought, as he heard Regina declaring her right to decide what medical help Isabel should have, if she told Whale to put her down like a sick dog.

Getting the paperwork through quickly wasn't a problem. If Regina ever paid attention to how things actually worked in the town clerk's office, she might have been able to slow things down—if she'd been truly clever, while Gold was busy cutting through red tape, she'd have sped up her efforts to have Belle declared an undesirable alien and sent off to the nearest airport with international flights.

Not that she would ever get that far.

Fortunately, Regina never thought of that. Before she'd made her first countermove, Albert Spencer was officiating over a hasty wedding in Isabel's hospital room. He might not have been Gold's first choice—or Isabel's—but Maine law allowed lawyers to perform weddings and even Regina would think twice about questioning the local district attorney's qualifications in court.

After that, it was a matter of getting Isabel to the point where she could get out of hospital and into his home, where he could keep her safe. Or he thought that was all there was to it. He was wrong, but it took him a while to realize it.

X

Isabel tried not to look guilty under Albert Spencer's glower as he read out the words of the wedding ceremony. Gold had brought a ring, but he couldn't put it on any of Isabel's fingers. He did manage a kiss, a very chaste one on her forehead where there weren't any bruises or stitches.

The preparations had been brief. No bouquet of flowers, of course, since she couldn't hold them. But, Gold had brought her a white rose that he put in a vase by her bed and he wore a matching one in his buttonhole.

White, not red. But, Gold had been very clear about what he did _not_ expect from her in this marriage. He had been nervous and shy and so very sincere, as if he expected her to be appalled at the idea of marrying him. It was so very like him. The few times she'd gotten up the courage to tell him handsome or smart or wonderful she thought him, he had brushed it off as a child's kind words to an old man.

Really, it made her want to hit him sometimes.

But, not that day. That day, she thought there was something else underlying what he was saying, his intensity as she assured her she would be safe from him—and that that was the he used, "safe." As anyone who'd ever signed a contract with Gold knew, he was never careless about his choice of words.

"Did you read the police report about—about what happened?" Isabel asked.

Gold was good at stillness. People liked to compare him to a predator holding still till it was time to pounce. Isabel wouldn't have thought she could tell the difference between still and frozen, but she did.

"Yes."

"And what. . . ." She wondered if she even wanted to know the answer—or if she needed to know it _now_ , in the middle of everything else.

 _And, if I don't have the courage to ask now, when will I?_

"What did it say happened?"

Gold met her eyes. "I know what happened. Regina sent you out to the store. You were attacked by a white male. He wore black ski mask and leather jacket."

The leather jacket. Isabel could remember almost every detail of it. A clue, she'd told herself, it had to be a clue to who the man was. It was sleek and new, expensive looking. There were breast pockets, one on either side, each made from three strips of leather with a snap over top. It had a shirt collar and a smell, a little like the myrrh incense sticks her college roommate from Taiwan used during what she called Ghost Month when making offerings for the dead.

She'd told Graham all that. She didn't know if he'd been listening.

Gold continued, "He grabbed you and dragged you into an alley. He beat you and—and left you there. You were found by a teenager, Elizabeth Count, on her way home from a friend's."

"Beaten," Isabel said. "Is that all?"

"I've seen the medical reports," Gold said softly. "I know what that man did to you. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen. But, if you don't, I won't press you. And I won't ask you to do _anything_ you don't want to."

"That's—that's not what the mayor is saying happened."

"Regina's flights of fancy are not your problem, not anymore."

"But, the police report. What did it say?"

"What you would expect, knowing our esteemed mayor. She said you were in the habit of sneaking out at night when you were supposed to be watching Henry. Never mind that you are an adult employee, not her teenage daughter, and that labor ordinances in this state generally forbid working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But, our beloved leader does not yet seem to have grasped that slavery is not and never has been legal in Maine.

"She vague but very picturesque claims about what you would do with men you met there, although how she claims to know these things is unclear, and speculates must have gotten out of hand the other night."

" _Out of hand?_ " Isabel sputtered. "She _said_ that?"

"It's what was written in the report."

"And what I said?"

Again, Gold hesitated. "Graham said you had difficulty answering and weren't always clear. But, that you didn't contradict anything Regina said."

"Not clear? I told him _everything_. I—" She wanted to cover her eyes with her hands and weep. Or scream. Or something, _anything_ other than letting this stand.

"I know," Gold said. "And, if I were making a case, I would destroy him in court—and I will, if the man who did this ever goes to trial—but that's not what matters right now. What matters now is keeping you safe."

 _Safe._ Isabel felt as if she didn't even know what the word meant, not anymore.

"The—the wedding," Gold said. "Dove will be there as witness. And as bouncer, if anyone uninvited tries to come in."

Did he mean the mayor? Or Dr. Hopper, trying to declare her unfit? Or Sydney Glass waving his camera in people's faces and yelling about the freedom of the press? Dove could throw them all out, as far as she was concerned.

"Er, is there anyone, a friend, perhaps, you'd like to invite?"

 _Graham_ , Isabel almost said, despite everything. She'd thought he was her friend. Like Gold, he'd been one of the few people in town who would actually talk to her once they knew who she worked for. She remembered the confused look on his face as he asked his questions and, somehow, couldn't seem to hear her answers. Despite it all, she couldn't help feeling he still was her friend. Or would be her friend if there weren't a huge, mayor shaped shadow standing between them.

But, no matter what Graham felt about her or anyone, she knew whose man he was, first, last and always.

"I don't suppose the mayor would let Henry come?"

"It seems unlikely."

"Then, no, I don't have anyone."

X

Five years later, her husband came home and told Isabel Sheriff Graham had died suddenly of heart ailment no one had known he had. A few days later, he had brought by a box of Graham's belongings.

"I let Deputy Swan take a couple things as keepsakes," he told her. "I thought you might like one as well."

Isabel looked through and found a news clipping Graham had framed, "Sheriff Graham Saves Local Charity."

It was one of Glass' usual, over-the-top pieces. "Save" might be a strong way of putting it, but Graham had helped the Lucases pull through when Granny's heart attack had almost closed down her diner and B&B.

Of all the things he'd done over the years, working as sheriff and Regina's right-hand man, this was the one he'd been proud enough to want to be reminded of every day, a simple act of kindness, of helping a neighbor.

The mayor had never cared much for the Lucases, as she remembered. But, she never seemed to care much for anyone. She wondered if Graham had done this with Regina's blessing or if he'd finally managed to shake her off.

 _And, if he did it for them, why couldn't he do it for me?_

An unexpected heart ailment _,_ that's what had killed him. A flaw in the heart _._

X

 **Notes:** I really, really, really meant to get back to Belle in the present. But, when I finished the part with Graham, adding any part in the present seemed to really mess up this chapter.


	4. Open Doors

The door was open.

The door was never open.

Gold moved quietly inside, picking up his gun. His eyes picked out what was missing, a jeweled knick-knack, gilt-edged china, an antique vase, and other odds and ends. His heart clenched as he saw the things that were left: a three hundred year old statuette, his cello, a dozen objects worth more than what was taken, just not as flashy.

Whoever did this was someone who had no idea what was valuable and what wasn't, someone who might have destroyed the only treasure here that mattered without a clue what they had done.

Gold looked in the kitchen and saw the dishes left in the sink, something else that never happened. Nothing had been broken. He didn't see blood or any other signs of a struggle.

Then, he heard footsteps behind him. Gold stepped back into the parlor, gun drawn as he looked at the foyer—

—And saw the sheriff facing him, her own gun pointed at his head.

"Sheriff Swan," he said softly, calculating the odds of the sheriff being the one who had broken in. She was certainly a stranger and she had _no_ idea what he had hidden away here.

"Your neighbors saw your door open and called it in," she told him.

The neighbors. They might not like him but they knew to stay on his good side—and that his door was _never_ left open. It wasn't an _unlikely_ story.

He didn't lower his gun.

"It appears I've been robbed," he told her, watching her face closely. The sheriff was level-headed and sensible. She was also a hero. And he was a monster. And Isabel, if anyone in town even remembered her existence, was the woman he kept locked up in his home, never letting her see the light of day. Or that was the story a certain someone might have told the sheriff.

"Funny how that keeps happening to you," Emma said.

He heard the irony in her voice, saw the impatience and exasperation in her face. No smug mockery, no cat-and-mouse cleverness at putting one over on him, not that he was sure the sheriff could manage those. But, there was no heroic glee at rescuing the damsel in distress from his dungeon, either—and no confusion when the damsel refused to be rescued.

Gold lowered his gun. "Yeah, well, I'm a difficult man to love."

Calm, he thought. He had to appear calm. Not rushed. Though it was all he could do not to shove the sheriff out the door and slam it behind her, he knew that would only make her more determined to find out what he was hiding.

He schooled his thoughts, trying to think of the best, simplest half-truth to get rid of her, when there was an unearthly yowl from the closet.

 _The closet._

Emma's eyes widened. She turned, flinging the door open, her gun drawn, as Gold rammed into her, knocking them both to the floor as a brown and white streak flew by.

"Gold, what do you think you're doing?" Emma growled, pushing him away.

He managed to pull himself up, grabbing his cane and giving her a sardonic grin. _No fear,_ he told himself. _Never let them see your fear._ "Keeping you from shooting my cat, Sheriff. Or had you meant to add felinicide to you list of accomplishments?"

"Cat? You have a cat?"

The cat in question hissed at her before turning tail and running out of the room. "Obviously," Gold said. "And one you seem to have made a very bad impression on." Emma's attention was on the retreating feline. She didn't see the pale face briefly peeking out from behind the coats. Gold felt as if his heart had come back to life. Isabel was there, she was all right.

And, with that realization, his brain began to work as well. He remembered a bit of business from this morning, an ostentatious truck he had repossessed in lieu of cash. And he remembered who had watched it all happen and tried to talk to him after. He knew who had broken into his home and he had a very good idea as to why. "Sheriff Swan, you can go now. I know exactly what was taken, and who did it. I've got it from here."

Being Emma Swan, she couldn't leave it at that. "No, you don't. This was a robbery, public menace, and if you don't tell me what you know, I will have to arrest you for obstruction of justice. I have a feeling you don't want to be behind bars."

"Indeed not." Any other time he might have been amused at her choice of threat. Like parent, like child. But, he didn't have time for this—or time to argue the law with her.

Besides, why not give the sheriff something to do? Something that would send her on her merry way and get her out of here? "All right, his name's Keith Nott," he said, with just enough resignation to make her think she'd won something. "He used to be at the cannery when he wasn't at the _The Rabbit Hole,_ but he lost his job a week ago. Got into a fight once too often. He recently defaulted on a loan, and we had a disagreement over collateral."

Emma nodded, back on familiar ground. "OK, I'll go get him, check him out."

"I'm sure you will, assuming. . . ." He looked at the closet, remembering Emma opening it with her gun drawn, ready to shoot. He thought of Keith searching his home while Isabel was trapped there, unable to escape. "Let's just say bad things tend to happen to bad people."

"Is that a threat?"

 _If I said yes, would you arrest me?_ He bit back the words. Isabel needed him. Getting arrested wouldn't help either of them. What he needed to do was send off the sheriff, let her hunt down Keith or chase her own tail, it didn't matter so long as she was gone. He looked at her innocently. "Observation."

The sheriff didn't like it. She asked far too many questions but, in the end, she left. Gold closed the door and slid all the locks and bolts back into place.

Then, hands trembling, he went back and opened the closet door. He limped over to Isabel's usual hiding spot and sat down beside her. His hands might be unsteady, but she was shaking all over.

"It's all right. She's gone. They're all gone."

"I couldn't—I _couldn't—_ I knew I should run. I knew I should get out. But—" She couldn't finish what she was trying to say.

"It's all right. You're safe now."

"I hate this. I hate being a coward. I hate being afraid."

" _You're not a coward._ "

She shook her head.

"You're _not_. Being afraid isn't the same as being a coward. Cowards don't fight. They run away. They let go when everything would have been all right if they just held on a little longer. You don't do that. You've _never_ done that."

She leaned into him, and he put his arm around her. The sat like that for a long time. Wee Jock, the cat, came back in and looked around cautiously. Seeing no signs of sheriffs or other annoyances, she scurried over to Isabel and took up her rightful place on her lap.

Isabel gave a teary giggle. "Traitor, you almost gave us away."

"What made her yowl like that?"

"Footsteps went past the door. That must have been you. I couldn't tell, not till I heard voices. But, Wee Jock must have smelled you. She went right to the door. When you didn't come in and I didn't let her out, she got impatient. That woman, was she Emma Swan? The new sheriff?"

"That's her," he hesitated. He knew how Isabel felt about strangers, but. . . . "She's fair-minded. Do you want to talk to her? File a report? I think it would go better than last time."

Isabel was silent for a long time. Gold didn't press her.

"Graham chose her as his deputy, didn't he?"

"Yes. Despite every argument Regina put against it. He did."

Another long silence.

"Not—not yet," Isabel said. "I want—I don't—I _can't_."

"It's all right," he promised. "I'll find the one who broke in here. He won't let him hurt you again."


	5. Memories

"I love you," Isabel told Gold.

They were sitting curled up on the sofa in front of a warm fire. The week had started badly for Isabel. It began with a storm had rolled in of the Atlantic, one of Maine's famous Nor'easters. The sky had been pitch black with thunder and lightning sounding like the end of the world. Gold had found her at the end of the day, hiding in the closet, covering her ears with her hands as she tried to think of anything other than the house being blown to bits by a strike from above, giving her the choice between running and staying. . . .

Gold had found her and sat beside her, talking about normal, unimportant things till she was ready to walk out on shaky legs and eat a warm dinner. The storm had eased up by then or maybe the sound just didn't bother her as much.

He had been gentle with her all week, not that he wasn't always. Since that night, they had been spending their evenings like this, curled up and talking together. He built a fire as often as not, and she thought about how warm and safe she felt with him.

 _I love you_.

She had finally said it. Gold, as she expected, gave her a sad, bitter smile in answer.

"I mean it," she said, before he could get into his usual, self-depreciating spiel. "Before you married me, before you showed up at the hospital." She smiled at her own memory. "I think I started to fall for you the moment I heard that Scottish brogue. I've always had a thing for them."

"Ah, so there's another Scotsman in you past? Someone younger and handsomer, no doubt." He tried to make it into a joke, but Isabel could see the sad truth in his eyes.

"Hardly," she told him. "He was a good man, like you—"

"I'm not a good man," he said. "I didn't care for Regina's game, that was all."

That was what he always said when they talked about that day at the hospital. For a while, as her bones knit back together and she began to remember what a life was like where she wasn't constantly following someone else's orders from sunup to sundown, she had almost believed him. He might have done as much for anyone Regina had decided to destroy just because it was in his power to stop her.

But, he held her when she had nightmares. He found her when she was in the closet, terrified and lost. He brought her books and newspapers, discussing the outside world with her.

It wasn't pity or some grudging tolerance. She knew he cared. Though, for the longest time, she'd been afraid that anything else was just in her imagination, that he cared for her the same way he cared for the stray cat he'd brought home one day. It had been after another storm, and he'd found the small kitten half-drowned and shivering with cold. But, his eyes wouldn't light up the way they did when she spoke to him if it were only that. He wouldn't turn away, blushing like a schoolboy when she caught him looking at her.

Would she?

"I think you're a good man," she said again. "But, good or bad, I love you."

He gave her that sad, lost smile again. "If your man with a brogue were here, if you saw us side by side, are you going to tell me you wouldn't pick him? That what you feel isn't just gratitude because I helped you when you needed it?"

"I know what gratitude is and I know what I feel for you. They're not the same."

"You don't owe me anything," he said. "I had five years to help you. Instead, I did too little too late."

"You didn't—"

"If I had acted sooner, if I had helped you get away from Regina, you wouldn't be hiding in closets when there's a lightning storm. You wouldn't be trapped in an old house with a man ancient enough to be your father—"

"You keep saying that. You were what, twelve when I was born?"

"Thirteen."

"A likely story. Even if you were, you still thought girls were icky and covered with germs so _don't_ say you could have been my father. As for closets—" She stopped. She hadn't told him this. She hadn't tole _anyone_ this, not since she was a little girl. Mum and Dad had known, of course, and they had helped her more than she could ever say.

She remembered what he'd said. If he'd acted sooner, she wouldn't be hiding in closets _. I did too little too late._

 _It's not your fault,_ she wanted to tell him.

The only way to tell him that . . . was to tell him everything.

"Mum and Dad. They adopted me. I told you that?"

He nodded, wondering where this was going. "You said they were good to you?"

"Oh, they were," For a moment, she let herself be diverted by kinder, warmer memories. "You wouldn't think that would be a wonderful childhood, would you? Eating desert dust for miles on end while following a flock of sheep, whether on a horse or on foot. Lessons at home because school was miles away and, anyway, Mum used to be a teacher, not that she didn't have plenty else to do. Did you know, besides everything else, she kept a garden? A lot of people tried to keep English style gardens going, but Mum had books on gardens in Spain and Turkey. She knew how to make a green place in the sand"

She could leave it there. Gardens in the desert, endless miles of a beautiful and merciless land that people still gave their hearts to, that was all she needed to say.

Except, she wanted him to know—she _needed_ him to know. And maybe he needed to know for himself. "But—but that's not what I wanted to tell you about." Her stomach rolled a little. Thinking about this was like imagining another lightning storm coming. "Have I—Did I—Have I ever told you about my birth parents?"

"I assumed you didn't remember them." His arms tightened just a bit, holding her protectively. "That's not true?"

She shook her head. "I was five when my mother died." The memories of that time were dark and confused. There were things she knew had to be nightmares—impossible, terrible things—that felt as solid and real as Gold did in this very moment. Still, she tried to make sense as she told him about it. "My father . . . I think he couldn't cope with everything." That was true enough, sadly, terribly true. "He sent me away to some—some people he knew."

 _People_. What a horribly weak way to describe them. Australians had plenty of colorful words, and Isabel knew plenty of them, even if Mum wouldn't have approved. There'd been two thousand sheep to sheer every year, and she'd heard every bad word there was a hundred times over and several new ones invented just for the occasion before wool was collected and ready to ship.

But, getting angry, swearing, shouting, breaking everything in the house, it all seemed so useless. What happened had happened. Nothing in the world was ever going to change that. The she could muster up was tired resignation.

"I suppose they couldn't cope either." Couldn't cope. Isabel searched for better words, couldn't find them, and went straight to the cold, simple facts. "They used to shut me in the closet. For long times. It felt like long times." Hours, days, minutes? Could a child's memories even be trusted? "I remember being given meals there." Cold gruel it would have been impossible to eat if she hadn't been so hungry, and never enough of it. But, that wasn't the important part, the part she needed him to understand. "It—it was frightening. In the dark. But, it was worse when they came back for me. They hit me. Sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

The words were simple. Like her, she thought he was feeling how small words could be when they tried to hold the truth. But, she could feel all the things he didn't say underneath them in the way he held her as he said it.

"It was a long time ago," Isabel said, knowing time didn't make the difference it should and guessing Gold knew it, too. "And . . . things got better. A man came one day. My father sent him to come for me before he died."

Her father had died, and she was free. She remembered being picked up and brought into the light and warmth for the first time in what seemed like years. How could that be an unhappy memory? But, her father was dead. Her father, who had sent her to these people, had died.

He couldn't have known. Could he? A man's wife died, and he couldn't care for himself, much less anybody else. He sent his child away to people he thought _would_ care for her.

But, they didn't. Simple as that. They didn't. He hadn't known.

Unless he had.

Before he died, he sent someone to find her, to make sure she was all right.

"He had a Scottish brogue," Isabel said. "Like you. I remember that. He took me away and took care of me." Isabel had felt safe and warm and cared for for the first time in what felt like years—like lifetimes. "He must have taken me to a doctor, though I don't remember that. I'd been getting bowlegged, and they gave me some sort of brace. I thought of them as my sparkly, princess legs. He gave me my first dog, Wee Jock, a little Westie he brought home from somewhere."

Isabel sighed. "You'd think, after being locked up like that, I'd hate to be indoors. But, large places frightened me for a long time. I used to run up and down the hallways chasing Wee Jock, but the backyard terrified me for the longest time." She smiled, thinking back. "It's funny how children's memories work, isn't it? When I remember that garden, it seems gigantic, like something belonging to a palace. The same with the house. It seemed huge, like I could never get to the end of it. I suppose it was because I was finally free to run around wherever I wanted. I knew there were walls and doors—I _remember_ walls and doors. But, they all seem endless.

"After—after I'd gotten better, I could play in gardens, I could walk without the brace, he told me he wanted to take care of me but he couldn't

"It's funny. You'd think I wouldn't believe that, wouldn't you? I've read all about foster-children and abandonment issues, and it's not as if I understood about the law and why an older, single man might not be allowed to adopt a little girl he wasn't even related to. But, I knew it was true. I knew he wouldn't lie to me. I _knew_ it.

"He took me to a social worker. The social worker brought me to Mum and Dad. I felt safe there. They loved me from the start. They also believed the great outdoors were the best thing for anyone who was ailing. I did, too. For a while." She looked at the fire, searching again for words. "But, the closet. . . . I remember what it felt like, being afraid in the dark but knowing things wouldn't be really bad till—till the door opened. Till someone came in. And I remember when gardens—being outside—when it was all strange and frightening.

"I—I suppose that's why. Why I have to hide there, sometimes. Even when I hate it. I know I'm safe. I know you're the only one who will come for me, there."

"The man who rescued you," Gold said. "Do you know what happened to him?"

Isabel shook her head. "I don't even know his real name. I used to call him Rum. I suppose that was some kind nickname. I—I don't even remember what he looked like, not really. I think . . . there are people who've been out in the desert too long, who never took care of themselves. They get all dried and wrinkled before their time. I think he was like that. It must have been bad," she chuckled. "When I try to remember him, I think of him having _scales,_ like a goanna lizard, that's how bad he was. He's no competition for you."

"That doesn't mean—"

"What happened to me wasn't your fault. If—if you don't want—If I've been wrong about everything and you just see me as a friend—or you really _do_ just see me as a child—" she grimaced as she said that as if she'd bitten into a sour lemon, "—then, I understand. We can just forget what I've said and go on as we did before—" Isabel briefly contemplated living in a house night and day with a man she'd tried and failed to seduce and didn't feel nearly as confident as she sounded, but there was no turning back now. "But, if I'm right, if you do feel the way I do. . . ." She reached up and stroked his cheek.

He shuddered, like a wall about to break. "Isabel, you can't—I'm old and ugly and you deserve so much more—"

If Isabel didn't know he shaved every morning, she'd find it hard to believe he ever looked in a mirror. For a moment, she thought of pleading her own ignorance. Life in her corner of the Outback had been like growing up in another century. Once she'd started university, she'd been perhaps _too_ focused on her studies. She'd had friends and dates, but there'd never been time for anything serious.

But, neither of those were the weak spot in his argument. "What I want is for me to decide, isn't it?' she said softly. Her hand traced down his face to his neck, then to his collar and tie. She hesitated, fingers playing along the silk. She was sure—she was _almost_ sure. . . .

Her eyes met his, questioning. "Or it is if—if you want me." She searched his eyes. "Do you?"

X

Four years later, Rumplestiltskin relived his first night with Isabel. Gold's experience with women was far less than the imp's. The curse had let him squeeze far more of his real self into Mr. Gold than any of Regina's other marionettes had managed, but it had never occurred to her that Mr. Gold might have a private life. As for Rumplestiltskin, his few forays into romance had been bad enough without a curse dooming them from the start, assuming he even wanted to chase after a woman trapped into lie and who would never know what kind of monster came courting her. Thank you, no.

They had been awkward and fumbling. He had gone slowly, half expecting her to come to her senses at any moment, to finally realize what she had let into bed with her and recoil in disgust. Or, worse, he had been terrified of hurting her, of reminding her of her attacker and that night.

Instead, well, they had managed. Gold wasn't _entirely_ ignorant, after all.

And Isabel had wanted him.

Isabel. Belle.

The child he had saved.

He had made a deal. It was the only thing he could do. There were powers that wanted Belle back, that wanted to restore the protection on Omelas. He'd thwarted Robin Hood's attack and the fools who came after. But, one careless moment was all it would take, and it wasn't the only danger. Regina was getting ready to cast the curse.

If it were only a matter of protecting Belle from the queen, he could have dealt with it. Oh, Regina would have realized he cared for the child and (he grudgingly admitted) her little dog, too. But, she would have found herself trapped and tangled in her own web if she tried to use Belle against him.

Protecting her from the curse would have been harder. It twisted people into caricatures of themselves, turned their strength to weakness, made them hate the things they'd loved or stole them outright. It poisoned dreams with nightmares.

What would it do with the lifetime of nightmares Belle had endured?

Still, if that had been all, he might have risked it. He knew every twist and turn of the curse. Finding a safe place in it to hide a single child, he thought he could do that. He'd found himself working out how it might be done.

Except, that wasn't the problem, was it? The problem was that, to protect Belle, he had to be there to guard her. For the curse to be cast, he had to be locked in a dungeon that even the Dark One couldn't escape (or one his captors could be convinced he couldn't escape, this last being not nearly as difficult as the first).

The fairies would know he was imprisoned. They were already building the cage that would hold him. They would hunt down Belle and, with all their pious mouthings about the greater good, destroy her.

If he saved Belle, be abandoned his son.

Two children. He had to sacrifice one to save the other. It was an impossible choice.

So, instead, he did what he always did. He found another way. He created a loophole.

He went to the Apprentice.

"Rumplestiltskin," the old wizard said. "There is nothing for you here. Every Dark One before you has come for the hat and every one has failed. You will not—"

"Yes, yes, we've been over all that. Lovely protective spell you've got on the thing. I'll break through it some other day. Right now, I need your help on another matter."

The wizard stiffened. "You think I will aid you in your designs? You may have enthralled the Evil Queen—"

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. "Enthralled? Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?"

"Do you think she would have ever started down this path without you?"

"Hmm, let me think. Regina started plotting Snow White's death before her true love's corpse was cold, and her mother was advising her how to do it. In fact, if it hadn't been for my _tireless_ efforts to keep the fairest of them all above ground and breathing, she'd be spending eternity in a glass coffin right now. So, yes, I'd say she would."

"That is not—"

Rumplestiltskin waved a hand. "Fine, fine, I'm evil, I corrupt everything I touch, and I have the annoying habit of never letting people finish their sentences. It comes with this whole 'Dark One' thing, as you may have noticed. I concede the point. Happy?

"Moving on, being evil and corrupt, I should not be allowed anywhere near small children and little puppies, which is where you come in. I'm going to give you the chance to rescue some from my vile influence. Of course, you can expect to pay dearly for the privilege. . . ."

In the end, they had reached an agreement (despite much sputtering outrage on the Apprentice's part). The wizard agreed to take Belle to a place beyond the curse's reach, where the fairies and their agents would never find her, a place where she would be safe, cared for, and loved.

Rumplestiltskin let himself into his home, carefully locking and bolting the door behind him.

"You're back early," Isabel—Belle—no, _Isabel_ said. Belle was a child he had taken in and sheltered to the best of his very poor ability. Isabel was a woman grown who made her own choices and knew her own mind.

 _And if she knew what was sharing her bed, you really think she wouldn't mind?_ A high-pitched, mocking voice inside him.

"There's a stranger in town," he told her. "I met her at Granny's bed a breakfast."

"A stranger?" Isabel asked, frowning. She had been bound to the curse when Regina decided to scoop her up and bring her along when she'd gone to fetch Henry. A part of her might realize something unheard of had happened, but her waking mind wouldn't accept it. Why should it? Gold had been forty-two for all the years Isabel had known him, and she'd never questioned that just as she'd never wondered why 'Gold' was the only name she knew him by. "That will be good for Granny. She hasn't had many tourists lately."

"She's not a tourist," Rumplestiltskin said. "It seems young Henry ran away—He's safe," he added quickly as Isabel's eyes widened in fear. Regina may have tried to destroy Isabel in a petty fit of jealousy five years ago (and Rumplestiltskin had no intent of forgiving what she'd done), but he could see the way the curse had infected her. The child who'd wanted nothing more than to be free of her dark cell was a prisoner, bound and chained by her own fears.

He could kill Regina for what she'd done to her.

As for what he'd done to her. . . .

 _I told you I'm a monster. Why didn't you listen?_

Why hadn't he?

"The woman in town, she's his mother, his birth mother. Henry tracked her down."

"His birth mother?" Isabel looked at him in shock followed quickly by fear. "Is she going to take him away?"

Isabel hadn't seen Henry for five years, but Gold was still able to bring her news of the boy. The child never asked after her. He expected Regina had told her son her own tale of his nanny's departure. Gold had been glad to leave matters be so long as Isabel was left in peace.

Rumplestiltskin . . . was not so sure. Silence might protect Isabel but it wouldn't break the curse. Bae or Belle? He thought he'd escaped this question twenty-eight years ago, but fate had other plans.

"She says not. Not that she could if she wanted too. In the eyes of the law, Regina is still Henry's mother."

And what would he do if Isabel decided she sided with Regina? Better nearby and with the devil she knew than with a stranger who might whisk him off to parts unknown?

"Her name is Emma Swan," Rumplestiltskin said. "I know how you feel about visitors, but she's Henry's mother. If you want to meet her. . . ."

He could almost see the curse wrapping itself around her. Isabel went pale and quickly shook her head. "No. Thank you. But, no."

"I understand," Rumplestiltskin said.

"Or . . . not yet," Isabel said. "Maybe—maybe someday?"

Rumplestiltskin smiled. "Someday."

X

 **Note:** So, this connects with Walking Away and the other Omelas stories. I have tried to make it very clear that Gold/Rumplestiltskin had no idea who Isabel was when he met her and that he fell in love with an adult while having no idea she was the child he'd saved. Gold's accent and his good qualities (like saving her from Regina) may remind Isabel of Rum, but they also remain very separate people in her mind.


	6. Cold Case

Keith Nott knew how to lay low. It wasn't what Emma expected. The guy had one of Graham's thicker files, but it was all little league stuff, mostly drunk and sometimes disorderly. He'd once accused Mrs. Lucas of assaulting him with a tray full of lasagna but had withdrawn the charge the next day, probably when he'd sobered up and realized what a full on war with Granny meant—or what a laughingstock he'd be if the story got out.

So, not smart and not subtle. He was the kind of guy who'd leave a note on his door telling his friends where to drop off the booze they owed him when he went into hiding. It was a wonder he hadn't gone straight to Mr. Gold's pawnshop to try and hock the stuff he'd stolen from him.

Nott might have left town, she supposed. Despite what Henry would say, there was nothing to keep him from driving to Portland or Boston or Alaska, if the mood took him. Except he didn't have a car. That was the collateral Gold had foreclosed on.

In a lot of places, that wouldn't matter. Get on a bus, rent a car, be out of town before anyone had a clue. But, this was Middle-of-Nowhere Maine. You had to go to the next town over just to take the Greyhound. Unlike Henry, Keith Nott didn't strike Emma as the kind to do long distance biking. None of his drinking buddies ever so much as bailed him out of jail. They wouldn't be lending him a car to go crossing state lines in. Wherever Nott was, he got there on foot.

Except, if that were the case, how had he pulled off the burglary? He hadn't just walked out of Gold's house with everything strapped to his back or pulling it in a little red wagon, so what happened?

Emma's bet was on Nott was working with someone, someone who had a car to loan him and a place to stash him—and who'd been able to convince Nott to stay stashed, which had to be a job in itself.

The big questions in an investigation: Who and why? Suspect and motive. Once you had those, you were home free.

Best guess: Someone with a grudge against Gold. That seemed to be everyone who'd ever paid him rent and a few who didn't. Leaving out elementary school kids and toddlers, that still left over 90% of the town.

Or most of the elementary school kids. If he thought it would help Operation Cobra, Henry would hide Nott in his closet in a heartbeat.

She looked through Graham's file one more time. Most of it was pretty straight forward. Or it was to Emma. Fortunately, she'd worked with Graham long enough to decipher notes that would have been hopelessly cryptic to anyone else.

She was about to put it away when she noticed the folded post-it at the back. She opened it up and read: _Pos n Lacey cs? Nvu. Alb 5 y. Reop?_

Emma translated from Graham-speak. _Possible suspect/person of interest in Lacey Case. Interview him. Check alibi five years ago. Reopen case?_

There was a date scribbled down. It was from the week before he died.

Five years. Nobody worried about drunk and disorderlies from five years ago.

Emma checked the file cabinets. There was no Lacey case. She did a brief check on Graham's computer, but Graham might as well have been from the middle ages from the way he made electronic entries. He kept up on what was required, and nothing more. Emma looked through his desk. More nothing.

She thought a moment. Graham wasn't a sneaky sort of person. Gold probably had a secret safe with a secret compartment to hide the secret key to his _really_ secret safe (or he would except that, if Emma could think of it, it was way too obvious for him). But, Graham had been all about the clear and direct. Any hiding place he picked would be the same.

 _Why would somebody that clear and direct hide something in his own office?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Henry's asked in her head. Emma didn't answer it.

She slid open the bottom drawer on Graham's desk, pulling it out. Behind it, where it could have gotten by accident, not that Emma believed that, was a manila envelope. Opening the envelope, Emma found a file marked _I. Lacey._

Emma took back the thoughts she'd had about understanding Graham-speak. The notes were obscure even by his standards, almost as if he didn't want people understanding them.

No, that wasn't it. She'd seen the blank look Graham got when she asked about his notes. Those were his attempts to be clear for other people who might come along and need what he'd written. Like the note in Nott's folder. He'd put down that Nott was a possible suspect in a case. He'd said which case and what he was planning to do—check the alibi—to look into it.

This was more haphazard, and Graham hadn't even _tried_ to make his handwriting legible. There was a list with something starting with "S" (suspects?) and "KN" (Keith Nott?) circled and at the top. Emma had no idea who the other letters were (assuming they were anyone). She spent five minutes looking at another sheet before realizing the scrawl at the top was numbers. Graham had written down a date, five years ago. The scribbles (she was pretty sure) were things that had happened on that date.

Maybe.

 _Bf 10 m._ What did that mean? Before 10 something? Graham capitalized names, so "m" wasn't a person (unless he'd written really badly). And _TC r._ What was _TC r_? TC should be a person, but who was it? And what did the r mean? _EC al w?_ Was EC connected with TC? Al wasn't one of Graham's usual codes, not one she remembered. Was "w" a question. When? Why? Where? What?

 _That's what I'm asking._

Another page had _Qs_ at the top and underlined. Emma knew that one: _Questions._ Most of it was more, unclear scrawl with more, unclear references. There were a lot of _I_ 's. Emma assumed those meant _I. Lacey._ There were also _R_ 's and some scattered _G_ 's. Another _EC_ followed by just _E_ 's _._

She finally hit a section she could understand. Except she didn't.

 _Org. Rp—msng? tsd? stln?_

 _EC st? Nvu?_

 _Rp kt? X Ghast._

Those meant:

 _Original report—Missing? Tossed? Stolen?_

 _EC statement? Interview?_

The original report had been lost? Stolen? And EC knew something that had also been lost?

If that was so, why the question mark? Why was Graham only _thinking_ of interviewing EC again? More importantly, judging by the notes, why hadn't he?

But, it was the last one that threw her.

 _Rp kt? X Ghast._

That meant _Rape kit? Ask Ghast._

Rape kit. The I. Lacey case focused around a rape kit.

And Graham considered Keith Nott his number one suspect.

Keith was a drunk who hung out in bars, the kind who had no problem harassing women who wanted nothing to do with him. She had no problem with that part of the case.

But, someone who could sneak into the sheriff's station and steal case files? That didn't sound like him at all.

Except, Graham believed it. Maybe. If that was really what he meant. If she was reading this right at all.

Once, she'd spent three weeks tracking down a guy in a really ugly murder case. The murder may have been awful, but all the guy she'd wanted had done skip bail before the police found out he'd picked one of the victim's pockets long before the guy was a victim. Just because a rape kit tied into this didn't mean that was what the case was about.

Emma stopped. One of the top rules when you were tracking someone was to watch out for your assumptions. Don't get so set on the answer you expect to be true, the one you _want_ to be true, that you don't see the truth when it's staring you in the face.

Emma wanted the rape kit to be just a small part of this because she wanted a neat, tidy burglary. She wanted to find a bad-tempered drunk who'd broken into a house for a bit of petty revenge, a drunk who'd just been better than he should be at lying low.

She didn't want complicated. And she didn't want a rape case that was five years cold.

And . . . she'd liked Graham. She'd _respected_ him. She didn't want a rape case Graham had let sit cold for five years, one where the top suspect was treated as obvious—a case, judging by his notes, Graham hadn't even _looked at_ in five years.

No, she thought, it wasn't just what she wanted to believe. It was because she knew Graham, and the Graham she knew wouldn't do that. He wouldn't let this slide for five years before he even looked at the obvious suspect's alibi. That couldn't be what this case was about.

"Hi, Emma!" Henry's cheerful voice broke through her thoughts. He was just walking in, still in his school uniform, backpack slung over his shoulder. "What are you looking at? Does it have something to do with Operation Cobra?"

 _Yeah, kid, let me tell you about rape kits. Oh, Regina hasn't discussed the facts of life with you, yet? Or just_ those _facts?_ Yeah, that conversation was not happening.

On the other hand, Henry was pretty good at knowing about anything weird going on in town. She didn't have to go into gory details, just ask some basics.

"I was looking through some old notes." She didn't mention Graham. Henry was still convinced Regina had murdered Graham (and Regina, as far as Emma could tell, didn't care what Henry believed so long as he didn't _talk_ about it. Yeah, Madam Mayor, that's the way to help a kid with issues so bad he thinks he's living under the same roof as a murderer. Don't talk about it. Way to make the kid feel safe). Keeping her voice light, Emma asked, "You ever hear of an I. Lacey?"

The light went out of Henry's face. He looked exactly the way he had when she found him at his castle after Graham died. "Isabel Lacey," he said. "You don't want to ask about her, Emma."

"Why not?"

"Because Isabel is dead."


	7. Searching for Answers

Curled up against her husband on the sofa, Isabel practiced keeping her breathing slow and steady. Gold read to her as if she were a child. It was an old, battered storybook she'd had since she came to live with the Laceys, _The Adventures of Isabel._

The Isabel in the poem met all sorts of monsters, calmly defeated them, and went on her way. Mum had read it to her over and over again when she had nightmares. Then, as the nightmares began to fade, she had read it to her over and over again because it was Isabel's favorite story.

She should feel foolish and small, needing it again the way she had when she was five, but Gold always treated it as the most natural thing in the world for a grown woman to want to hear the story. Listening to his rich, Scottish accent as he rolled the r's in "an eno _rrr_ mousbea _rrr_ ," she could believe he enjoyed it, too.

As Gold finished, his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, turned it on, read something on the screen, and frowned. "Belle—" he began, then caught himself. It was odd. He never called her a nickname, not Belle and not the hated, much more common _Izzy_.

But, he'd been different these past few weeks. He'd never been fond of Mayor Mills, but Emma Swan coming to town had given him a new focus. Before, they'd been like a couple of guard dogs in neighboring yards, always growling and making sure the other never got an inch into their territory. They also paid attention when the other barked a warning and would have made mutual hash of any trespassers caught between them.

Then, Emma arrived, and everything changed. She was a new weapon in their on/off war, one Isabel Gold meant to use to devastating effect. He never said as much, not even to her, but she'd seen him smirk as he read articles in the paper and heard his acid commentaries on the mayor's mistakes.

Sometimes, though, he would catch himself and look at her as if she were the one he was hurting, not Regina. "I'm sorry," he said once. "I'm an old monster. You deserve better."

That was another thing that had changed. He made more and more comments about his age, how he was too old and awful for her, as if he were centuries older, not less than a decade.

She remembered the first time she'd seduced him and how insufferably pleased she'd been with herself after (to be fair, she hadn't been the only one). Much as she'd wanted it, she'd been tentative and unsure. What little experience she'd had was a looming shadow she'd been trying hard not to remember.

Gold hadn't talked much about his past as far as romance went except to say his last one was "years ago and mutually unsatisfactory to all concerned." Isabel loved him and couldn't imagine being with anyone else, even if the doors could be thrown wide open and the world was at her feet; but there would always be a touch of hesitation and awkwardness.

Except it had grown worse. Gold seemed almost ashamed to be making love to her, as if he were committing some sort of crime. "I'm a monster," he told her time and again. "You deserve so much better than me."

Nothing else had changed between them. He still looked at her with adoration and held her the way he was holding her now, as if she were the most important thing in the world and he would do anything to protect her.

But, something had changed. She didn't know what, but things weren't the same between them.

Now, he was slipping and calling her by the wrong name.

Except it wasn't, was it? Long ago, she remembered her mother and father—her real mother and father—calling her that. So had her dragon man, Rum, when he hadn't used endearments like "little one." It was only starting over with her new mum and dad, the Laceys, that she had become someone else. It had made sense to her at the time. A new world, a new life, of course, she needed a new name.

"Isabel," Gold corrected. "That was about the burglary. I have to go and deal with it."

Isabel sat up, trying not to let the surge of fear she felt at being alone show. "Of course. I understand."

Gold looked at her uncertainly. "Are you sure? I'll—I'll send Dove over. He's doing some work for me but, once he's free. . . ."

"It's all right," Isabel said. She added what she knew was true even if she couldn't make herself believe it, "We'll all be better off once this is take care of, won't we?"

Reluctantly, Gold nodded. "Once it's taken care of."

He got up and left. Isabel, as always, watched as he went out the door, then shut it and rammed all the locks in place, trying to ignore the panic building up inside her.

There'd been a time, early on when she'd first come to live here, when she'd still been able to go into the back yard, enjoying what little sun Maine in autumn had to offer. Back then, she was still telling herself it was only a matter of time before she went out the front door again. She was still recovering. Short walks up and down the hallway wore her out. There was no reason for her to leave the house.

Then, one day, she'd seen some boys cutting through the neighbor's yard across the street (she'd still been able to look out the windows in those days, even if she did it standing very far back.

The next time she'd tried to go out into the garden, she could only stare at the back door. She tried to force herself, to lift her hand and just touch the doorknob, her heart began to pound. She fought for breath. In the end, she had taken to the closet, sobbing like a child trapped in a nightmare.

As the gasping breaths finally slowled became steadier as curled up in the corner, the fear ebbing away enough to let her appreciate what she had done.

 _Not this,_ she thought, looking at the four, windowless walls around her. _Not again. I promised myself never again._

Rum, her dragon-man, had promised her she would be safe. He had promised he would never let them take her back to this place.

 _He didn't lie,_ she thought. _I took myself back._

She hadn't been outside since.

Heart hammering against her chest, she forced herself not to look at the closet. This house had been her refuge, her sanctuary for five years. But, it wasn't safe, any more than the yard had been. A stranger could come in and walk up and down as he pleased.

She wanted to barricade herself in the closet, to hide and never come out. But, she was afraid that, if she did that now, that's what really would happen. She would be trapped as she had been when she was a child, imprisoned forever with no way out.

Closing her eyes, she curled up in a small corner on the sofa. _Breathe,_ she reminded herself. _Take calm breaths. Measure them out. Till the calm you're pretending is real._

She paced them out, thinking of the story lying on the coffee table and silently reciting it, not letting the air out till she came to the end.

 _Isabel met an enormous bear. . . ._

X

Peregrine Ghast.

Emma stared at the name plate on the desk. She knew someone with a last name like Swan shouldn't point fingers, but _Peregrine?_ If you were already stuck with a last name like _Ghast,_ did you have to make it worse and name your kid _Peregrine?_

"It could have been worse," a voice from the back said. "I have it on good authority my mother considered naming me Gorman."

Emma didn't know what she'd been expecting Peregrine Ghast to be, but he was fairly normal. A tall, lean man somewhere in his fifties, with brown eyes and hair that was still more gold than gray. He had a faint hint of an English accent. He gave her a ready smile, saying, "At least, a Peregrine is a type of falcon, not an owl. It could have been worse."

He made it sound like an obvious joke. Emma didn't get it. "Owls are worse?"

"Ah. Never watched Gormenghast? Or read the books?"

"Sorry. Not much of a TV watcher."

"Oh, quite all right. I suppose both of us have heard enough bad jokes about our names, haven't we, Sheriff?"

Emma would have bet good money _Swan_ wasn't nearly the kind of playground fodder _Ghast_ was, but she nodded in agreement. "More than enough. Look, Mr. Ghast, I was wondering if you could help me with something. Did Sheriff Graham talk to you about a case he was working on? It would have been just before he died."

"Sheriff Graham? The last time I saw him was about three, no, four weeks before he passed away. It was something about a fender-bender in the hospital parking lot, and the sheriff wanted to see our security tapes. Was that what you needed?"

Emma gritted her teeth. Of course, it wasn't going to be that easy. "No, Graham was tracking down some information on a cold case. Isabel Lacey. The rape kit was processed here, wasn't it?"

"Ah, Isabel." Ghast shook his head sadly. "I remember that one. Most unfortunate. All of it, most unfortunate." He went to a file cabinet and began searching through it, pulling out a manila folder.

"You knew her?" Emma asked.

"Enough to recognize her in the street," Ghast said. "She brought young Henry Mills in for his shots and checkups. She brought him in just before . . . _it_ happened, making sure he was ready for school. Ah, here we go," he said. "Hmm, it looks like the kit was never processed once it became clear no charges would be pressed."

No charges? Why weren't there any charges? The little bit Emma had been able to make out of Graham's notes made it sound like Isabel had been attacked on the street. Statistically, those were the rarest kind of assaults but the easiest to prosecute. Why had charges been dropped?

And how could Emma ask that without mentioning how the entire file on this case had been stolen? She went with a simpler, safer question. "Could you process it now?"

"If we had it. The kit would have been turned over to the sheriff's department. The hospital isn't equipped for long term storage for criminal cases."

 _And the sheriff's office is?_ Emma was embarrassed to realize she didn't know how the sheriff's office stored perishable, biological evidence long term. _Maybe we contract it out? Keep stuff at a county or state facility?_

But, Graham had made a note to ask Ghast about the case. He had to know something. Emma tried different line of questioning. "What about when she died? Would the autopsy have been done here?"

"She was leaving town," Ghast said, leafing through the folder. "If she died outside the town boundaries, it became a county matter. . . . No, there's no autopsy report here. You'd want to contact the county for any more information."

Which meant paperwork and red tape, none of which was going to be any easier when she didn't know _why_ she was looking into this. Oh, she had her excuses ready for when she called the county offices. She had a case she believed tied into a previous one and needed whatever they could tell her about the woman who'd died. That ought to work. But, it might help a lot more if she knew what it was she was looking for so she might have a chance at recognizing it when she saw it.

Or if she should just forget about this and concentrate on finding Keith Nott, a suspect she could name who'd committed a crime she understood. _Time to move on,_ Emma told herself. _You've wasted enough time on this. Stick to what you understand._

"Do you remember anything else about that case?" she asked.

Ghast closed the folder. "I've already told you everything I can without a warrant, Sheriff. Medical confidentiality doesn't go away just because the patient's died."

"I'm not asking for medical records," Emma said. "I'm asking if _you_ remember anything, anything at all."

Ghast hesitated. "It was . . . terrible, what happened to that poor girl," he said. "I admit, I used to think Miss Lacey had never known real hardship, that she was the sort who'd slipped away from it. But, I was working here the night they brought her in. She was still unconscious, which had to be the only good thing that happened to her that night, that and being found."

Emma's assumptions hit the brakes and did a u-turn. She'd understood Isabel had been attacked. But . . . the case had been _dropped._ You dropped cases when the victim didn't want to pursue them or when the evidence of a crime just wasn't strong enough. You didn't drop them when you had an someone beaten into unconsciousness with injuries that made a witness five years later look pale and sick. The odds were too good this would only be the first victim.

"Were there any more attacks?" Emma asked.

"Not in Storybrooke," Ghast said. "I've always thought whoever did it had to be a stranger passing through."

"You guys don't have much of a tourist trade."

"Who else could it be? A monster who could do this wouldn't have stopped there, but Isabel was the only victim. What other answer is there?"

That was the question. Emma had read Nott's file. He was small time. She wouldn't be surprised to find out he'd attacked a woman. He was the sort of drunk who would never understand that every woman he met wasn't secretly in love with him, and "No" was two letters more than his brain could take in. But, a vicious, sadistic attack that left a woman half-dead? Not his style, not unless he managed it through sheer incompetence.

"If it was a passer-through, somebody must have seen him," Emma said. "Granny would notice anybody checking into her B&B."

Ghast shrugged. "He might have hidden out in a barn or maybe one of the cabins up in the hills. They would have been empty. School had just started and hunting season hadn't begun."

Cabins.

A place where an idiot with no hiding skills could hide out without being found. Far enough away no one would spot him and close enough he could get there without a car.

 _Cabins._

X

 **Note:** Rumple is traditionally considered quite good in the romantic department. Cursed Gold, however, doesn't have many memories in that area. He and Belle have managed and been happy, but there was a fair amount of awkwardness and imperfection. Since getting his memories back, Rumple has been sure Belle will be horrified once she finds out what kind of monster he is and that he spent some time as her foster father. This has made things more awkward (and, if I have to put this in a note, I'm probably doing something wrong with my story, but there you go).


	8. Milk and Blood

Emma knew there were cabins out in the woods and was pretty sure Graham had them on some maps back at the office. But, before she got to them, she needed some lunch. Unless it was an early dinner by now. Food, she needed food.

 _Granny's_ was slow when she got there. The lunch rush was over and no one except her wanted their dinner yet. There were a few clusters of school kids gossiping over their drinks and a shared order of fries, and that was about it.

Just as well, Emma thought. The diner was one of two hubs for news in town and _Granny's_ was a whole lot more accurate than _The Mirror_. She decided not to have her sandwich to go after all.

Ruby came over cheerfully to get her order. "We've still got room in our girls night, if you want to come," she said. "You interested?"

Emma had almost forgotten the conversation earlier today. Mary Margaret, Ashley, and Ruby were going to drown their Valentine's Day sorrows/hit on guys at _The Rabbit Hole_. Emma had been trying to bow out even before this came up. "No thanks," she said. "Someone's got to watch for drunk lovebirds."

"Emma, if that's how you spend Valentine's Day, you need a drink."

"Maybe next time. Besides, I'm hoping to catch Henry tomorrow morning before school. Having a hangover won't go over well."

As Emma hoped, Ruby accepted that. "How's Henry doing?"

 _Other than having an evil sociopath for a mother who doesn't care what he's going through so long as he stops talking about it? Just peachy,_ Emma didn't say. "He's OK." She didn't have to fake how empty that sounded. "Hey, Ruby, did you know Henry used to have a nanny?"

"Oh, yeah, Isabel. I remember her. Really sad, what happened."

"Hmph," Granny said.

"You don't agree?" Emma said. Granny could be a hard woman, but Isabel was dead. Didn't that earn her a few points for sympathy?

"It was awful what happened to her," Granny said. "But, even in Storybrooke, you don't go hanging out at _The Rabbit Hole_ by yourself in the middle of the night."

Emma had a few, sharp comebacks for people who said things like that. They came up almost automatically while her brain was busy processing what Ruby and Granny just said, that something had happened to Isabel late at night by _The Rabbit Hole_. It was one of Nott's favorite hangouts and fit with Graham's suspicions.

 _But, Henry said Regina sent her out on an errand. Did Regina lie to him?_

If she had, for once, it was a lie Emma could get behind, maybe one she would have told Henry herself. You don't tell a five year old his nanny's been murdered in a bar.

Emma finished that thought just as her mouth opened up to put Granny in her place, when she saw the way Granny was looking at Ruby. Ruby who spent plenty of her off time in _The Rabbit Hole_. And who was going there tonight.

 _OK, maybe I won't say that._

Emma wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to Ruby's mother. But, that was a story even Storybrooke's rumor mill hadn't been able to get a grip on. All she knew was that Ruby's mother was gone—and that there was an empty fatalism in Ruby's grandmother's eyes when she talked about bad things happening to women who stayed out too late in bars.

 _One crime at a time, Emma._ Or two, if Keith Nott and Isabel Lacey weren't connected after all.

"She used to go to _The Rabbit Hole_?" Emma tried to sound . . . not shocked, Granny wouldn't believe shocked, but just a touch surprised.

"All the time," Granny said.

Emma tried to imagine Regina putting up with a nanny who snuck out for nightly drinking parties and decided her brain wasn't up to the task. She turned to Ruby. "Did she hang out with you?"

"Not really."

"But, you saw her there?" No, Emma wasn't buying that story. She pushed for more details. "You saw who she hung out with? Remember what she used to do?" Pushing for specific details helped slow down the rush of assumptions, putting the brakes between what they _thought_ they knew and what they really remembered.

And it worked. Ruby frowned. "It's funny," she said. "I know she hung out there—everybody knew—but I didn't see much of her."

"Do you know anything about what happened to her?" It would be hearsay evidence, useless in court. But, it would be a start.

Granny snorted again. "Why are you asking Ruby? The prime witness is right over there." She nodded towards a cluster of high school girls.

"What?"

"Elizabeth Count," Granny said. "She was the one who found her."

X

Elizabeth Count snagged a French fry, ignoring the ketchup—she always ignored the ketchup. Sarah was telling them about her plans for the school dance and how Wayne Polson was going to be so sorry he hadn't asked her, when someone came up to their booth. Elizabeth glanced over and froze. The cheerful ruckus at the table stopped. The sheriff was looking down at her.

"Elizabeth Count?" Sheriff Swan said. Elizabeth nodded mutely. "I have a few questions I need to ask you."

The other girls watched as silently as if Elizabeth were being led to her execution as she got up and followed the sheriff. Sheriff Swan led her to a back room in the diner, where they could have some privacy. It was some kind of workroom with a washer and dryer. Elizabeth wondered what it was for. They didn't use tablecloths at _Granny's_. Maybe they washed stuff from the bed and breakfast?

"I'm looking into an old case," the sheriff said. "It's about Isabel Lacey. I understand you were the one who found her?"

Elizabeth wasn't surprised. On some level, she'd known this was what the sheriff wanted to talk about from the moment she saw her. Why else would she want to talk to a kid like her?

"Can you tell me about it?"

Wasn't the sheriff supposed to tell her about her rights? But, that was only if she'd done something wrong, and she hadn't, not really. It wasn't—it _couldn't_ —be her fault. It was just something that happened.

"I was coming home from Sarah's house—Sarah McArthy, she's a friend of mine. It was the first day of school, but we'd already been assigned this big project. We were talking about it and our classes and. . . ." And it didn't really matter. All of that seemed like something that had happened to someone else in another world. It was like a story Elizabeth knew the words to but couldn't really remember what they were supposed to mean. Projects, classes, curfews, they'd seemed so important. Till they weren't.

"It got late," Elizabeth said, sticking to the part that mattered. "I had a curfew and I needed to get home. I—I cut through the alleyway, the one by the pharmacy. I'm not supposed to. But, I did."

She wasn't supposed to. What happened had already happened. It wasn't because of her, of what she did.

So, why didn't it feel that way? Why did if feel like everything that happened was because of her? She'd stayed out late. She'd cut through the alley. She'd found the body. It was like fairy tales. Stay out past midnight. Talk to strangers. Bad things happen.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, as if that could keep her from seeing what was inside her own head. "I didn't even know what it—what she—I didn't know what I was looking at. I—I saw the pools on the ground. The dark one, that was blood. The pale one, that was milk."

"Milk?"

"There'd been a big container of it. It got thrown against the wall and went everywhere. But, it hadn't mixed with the blood, not really. I saw—I didn't even know it was a body at first. I kept staring at this small thing, trying to figure out what it was. It was red and pale and black, about the size of a rat. I wondered if it was a rat, a sick one that had lost its hair. But, there was this black mark on the back, the shape of a shoe heel, a big one, like a guy's hiking boot or something. It had. . . . I was trying to figure out why a rat would have five tails or how its legs could get twisted around like that or. . . . And, then, I saw it was a hand. I—I don't know why I didn't see that before. It was a hand. Someone had stopped on the hand and left a big bruise, the black mark I saw. And it was attached to an arm. And the arm belonged to a person. The blood was all hers."

It had taken forever to see it. Even when she _knew_ what she was looking at, she couldn't believe it. She remembered thinking the arm was sticking out of a pile of trash or rags or something, that it had to be from a mannequin or—or something, _anything_ but a person. Even now, when she thought back, it didn't seem real. It had to be some crazy dream.

The only thing that was real was the smell of blood. No matter how hard she tried, she could never get that smell out of her head.

"What did you do then?" the sheriff prompted.

"Nothing," Elizabeth whispered. "Screamed. I didn't do anything. I just stood there and screamed till the ambulance came and took her away."

The sheriff frowned. "How'd you get home?"

"The sheriff—the old sheriff, Sheriff Graham. He gave me a ride. He must have talked to my mother. I didn't get into any trouble for being late."

And, whatever the sheriff said, her mother hadn't asked her about it. Elizabeth went to bed, got up early, and ran to school before her mother had a chance to ask her anything. She got through the whole day as if nothing strange had happened.

And the next day.

And the next day.

And the day after that.

This was Storybrooke. If you left things alone long enough, it was like they never happened.

Elizabeth wanted to leave this alone. She wanted to go back and eat her fries (no ketchup, she'd never been able to eat anything with ketchup since that night) and try to forget about it again. Instead, she blurted out something she'd never told anyone.

"I tried to go see her."

"What?"

"In the hospital. I went after school. But, they were only letting family in."

"Isabel had family?"

"Not that I saw. That's just what they told me. They let the mayor in. Because she was her boss, I guess. And she's the mayor. And Mr. Gold."

"Mr. Gold? Why?"

"I guess he was her lawyer? Or something? The mayor and him were having some kind of argument. I didn't stick around for that."

"I . . . see. Is there anything else you remember? It doesn't have to seem important. Anything at all might help."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, that's all. I'm sorry."

"It's OK. What you've remembered helps a lot. I don't know if he ever told you but I'm sure Sheriff Graham appreciated your help, too." She started towards the door.

"I didn't help him."

Sheriff Swan stopped. "What?"

"I didn't help him. When I found her, he never asked me anything."

"But, later, when he was investigating—"

"There wasn't any later. That was it. He took me home. Nobody ever asked me about it again."

X

In the basement beneath the hospital, a door grated open. Keith Nott stopped his restless pacing and glared.

"About time! I thought you were never coming back."

"I'm glad you waited."

"Waited? Like I had any choice! The door was locked."

"Was it? Well, we had to make sure you didn't go running off into the sheriff's arms somehow, didn't we?"

"You think I couldn't handle her?"

"I think we'd all be happier if you didn't have to handle anything at all."

"Do you know how long I've been stuck here?"

"Long enough for the sheriff to be looking in the opposite direction." The speaker tossed Nott a set of keys. "The car's out back. No one will be looking for it. Just drive to the town line." It was impossible to see, but the voice seemed to hold a self-satisfied smile. "Once you're past that, you're out of the sheriff's jurisdiction. All your worries will be over."

X

 **Note:** I don't know if anyone reading this has ever seen or heard of a British show called Young Dracula, but I had an idea a while back for a Once/Young Dracula crossover. It didn't go anywhere, but Elizabeth Count is based on the Storybrooke persona I made for the Count's daughter, Ingrid. Remember, Storybrooke personas are often nothing like the original person.


	9. Missing Pieces

"That was Dove," Gold said after ending the call. "He spotted the man who broke in." He looked at Isabel uncertainly. "I need to talk to him, find out what was going on."

 _What was going on,_ Isabel thought. Because there was more to this than someone breaking into their house. She'd heard what the man had said while she hid. He'd been looking for her.

And there was at least one person out there who'd been working with him, someone he didn't worry about chatting with while he completed a crime.

"I don't have to go," Gold said. "If you'd feel safer—"

"No," Isabel said, trying to ignore the fear churning inside her, trying to ignore the voices telling her to run, to hide. "I'll be all right."

"Isabel. . . ." Gold always knew when people were lying, not that he was going to call her on it.

"I'll be all right," Belle repeated firmly, trying to believe it. Besides, whether she managed to hold it together or not wasn't what really mattered, was it? "We both know it's not safe while he's still out there."

Gold agreed. He wasn't happy about it. But, he agreed.

After he was gone, Belle sat on the sofa, Wee Jock curled up in her lap. She refused to look at the closet. She tried to think of the sheep station in Australia and her first night in a real bed after Rum, her dragon man, had found her. She tried to think of anything besides hiding away and closing the door.

If she hid there this time, it would be different. This wouldn't be hiding away until she felt safer. This would be closing the door because even the house wasn't safe anymore, the same way the world outside was too dangerous for her to set foot in.

If she hid there now, she was never coming out. Even if they dragged her out, it would be too late. The door would be closed. Her heart, her mind, her soul—something inside her would be trapped forever, and not Gold nor dragons would set her free.

She sat on the sofa, stroking Wee Jock, counting her breathes as she slowly let them in and out, and trying not to remember the closet was there, like a hungry beast just waiting to swallow her whole.

The battered storybook Gold had given her was on the table. Isabel didn't dare open her eyes and look at it, but she began reciting lines from it in her head, pacing her breathing to the lines.

 _Isabel met an enormous bear,_ _  
_ _Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;_ _  
_ _The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,_ _  
_ _The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous._ _  
_ _The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,_ _  
_ _How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!_

 __ _Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry._ _  
_ _Isabel didn't scream or scurry._ _  
_ _She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,_ _  
_ _Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up._

"I am stronger than you," Isabel said. She still didn't open her eyes but she could feel the door there, inviting her in. " _I am stronger._ "

She started on the next verse of the poem.

X

Emma was back in the sheriff's office, looking over Graham's notes and trying to make sense of them.

 _He didn't ask any questions._

No, that wasn't Graham. He had his problems, especially when it came to Regina, but he was a good cop, a _clean_ cop. He wouldn't—he would never—

Except he had. A good cop wouldn't ignore the only witness to a crime.

The file missing, she'd been able to understand that. Maybe Graham had discovered it stolen when he reopened the case. That's why he hid the second one so carefully. Or maybe he still had the original but had hidden it some place Emma hadn't found yet.

That there'd never been a file at all? No, she hadn't thought of that.

 _He was an_ inexperienced _cop,_ Emma told herself. Storybrooke crime was lost cats and parking tickets. What did Graham even know about investigating a real crime?

 _Enough to get it all wrong. Witnesses not interviewed, case file missing, rape kit gone or destroyed._

What was the saying? _Never blame malice for what can be explained by stupidity._

 _Was Graham this stupid?_

 _No, he wasn't._

But . . . Graham was the one who'd reopened the case. It was Graham's notes that had gotten her started on this.

 _OK, Emma, think this one out._

There was plenty of notepaper on the desk, but Emma didn't start writing anything down. If Grant had a reason for hiding the file, notes—any notes—weren't safe, not till she knew what was going on.

And, if there wasn't a reason—or if that reason was as rotten as old fish. . . .

Then, Emma wasn't ready to admit by picking up a pen. She cleared her mind and tried to put her thoughts in order.

The victim: Isabel Lacey, an Australian. Not that that meant much in Storybrooke. There were a lot of accents here. But, by whatever small town rules decided these things, she was an outsider. Or maybe that was just how people talked about her now she was dead.

Rumor said she was a party girl. But, rumor didn't add up to fact. More likely people had started telling stories after she was attacked and they took on a life of their own. After all, if the victim deserved it and had been asking for trouble, then you could still keep your kids safe, couldn't you?

She thought about the look in Granny's eyes and Ruby's missing mother, wondering again what had happened to her. _One mystery at a time,_ Emma thought. Right now, the one that interested her was Isabel Lacey. Australian, nanny, victim, and woman who'd lived in a small town for five years without ever being close to anyone besides Henry, or not anyone who was admitting it.

 _So, that's the victim. What about the crime?_

Sometime between nine and ten on a school night, Isabel Lacey was attacked in an alley. Attacked, beaten, left for dead.

 _The crime was ugly, but that's not the point, is it?_

Outrage, disgust, anger, Emma parked them at the door when she was working a case. It didn't matter if a bail-jumper cheated on his wife or stole money from orphans—or it didn't unless it gave her a good guess where to find him. Doing her job meant keeping a cool head and focusing on what mattered. The point of a missing person was figuring out where they'd gone. The point of a crime like this was figuring out why it was committed. _Why_ would lead her to _who._

This crime was vicious. Someone had wanted Isabel Lacey smashed to pieces and left for dead, someone who hated her—maybe hated her personally, or hated anyone who worked for the mayor, or hated something else she reminded them of. But, that hatred was the key to this case, she was sure of it.

And her prime suspect?

Keith Nott was a small-time crook and full-time drunk who thought he was heaven's gift to women. He probably had a big problem taking "No" for an answer. He might follow a woman out a bar when she'd told him to get lost and put the question to her again, not giving her a chance to turn him down. It wouldn't surprise Emma if he had.

She could also imagine him hitting the woman too hard as she tried to get away or choking her when she screamed for help. Killing someone because he was scared of getting caught or too stupid to know, in real life, people didn't just get up and walk away from major head injuries, she could see that.

He'd probably be all for it if you wanted to hire a thug, too. She wondered if Gold ever needed to hire extra muscle besides Dove and that was the reason Nott was mad, because the boss had turned on him.

Not likely, she decided. Much as she liked the idea of getting something on Gold, you would only hire Nott if you didn't care what damage he caused on the way. He'd also spill everything he knew to the police to save his own skin—or spill it all to the guy sitting next to him in _The Rabbit Hole_ next time he'd had a few too many.

But, this? This was like a mad dog, blindly tearing apart its' victim. Keith Nott felt humiliated by Gold and he robbed his house. Whoever did this would have broken everything inside—or, no, they'd find the _one thing_ Gold treasured the most and break it. They'd leave everything else intact and grind it to powder, so he would know they had chosen it just to get to him. Something vicious and nasty that would hurt.

That was the crime. But, what happened after?

Isabel lived. A twelve or thirteen year old girl was cutting home and found her in time to save her life. For a little while.

And then . . . what? The traumatized girl is sent home. The brutalized nanny is sent to the hospital. Regina shows up, which wasn't sinister, even if Emma would like it to be. After all, Isabel worked for her.

Gold also showed up, which might be sinister. Or might not. He was a lawyer, and Isabel was a crime victim. Emma still didn't know if he was the mayor's enemy or friend but suspected he was both, not that that helped her guess which one he was being that night. But, either one might be plenty of reason to help a dying woman.

Or to hurt her.

Forget that. Stick to facts. Gold showed up and, according to a young girl who might or might not know what she was talking about, had an argument with the mayor. It might have been about Isabel. It might have been about what happenedto Isabel. Were they accusing each other? Making threats?

Or maybe Gold just tracked the mayor down to tell her the town owed him money and didn't care who was dying a few feet away. Maybe his being there had nothing to do with Isabel. It wasn't like life stopped—or like Gold would stop being a major pain—just because someone was in the ICU.

Whatever happened, Graham's investigation five years ago came to a quick halt. Evidence vanished and witnesses weren't even interviewed.

 _Regina,_ Emma thought morosely. That was the only reason Graham would drop something like this, if Regina told him to.

Except—except—she'd _seen_ him fight Regina. He'd hired her as deputy when Regina wanted her out of town. He'd listened to her instead of Regina when she'd told him how to find Henry. Whatever grasp Regina had on him, he'd been breaking free of it.

And he'd started the investigation again on Isabel Lacey.

Emma looked at the map of the town. She stuck a pin in Regina's house. She stuck another pin in _The Rabbit Hole_. A third pin went into the alley where Isabel was found. It was in the opposite direction from the bar—but it was only a block away from _The Dark Star Pharmacy_.

The attack had happened between nine and ten, early for a heavy drinking partier to be heading back from a bar but just about right for someone running out to get milk before the store closed. Which meant there was one more person who might remember what had happened that night, one more person who might give her a hint what Graham was thinking.

Emma glanced out the window. Night came on early this time of year in Storybrooke. It was already dark out, but the pharmacy would be open for a few more hours. She was betting Tom Clark could answer at least a few questions for her. After all, when a woman is practically murdered on your doorstep a few minutes after you sell her milk, it tends to stick in your mind.


	10. Valentine Meetings

One moment, Keith had been about to hit the town line. His headlights cut through the winter mist that had begun to rise as the sun went down. He could see the letters of the "Leaving Storybrooke" sign glowing pale and white in the darkness.

This was it. He was almost free of this dump. In a few hours, he'd be in Portland, maybe sell a few of the smaller trinkets he'd taken from Gold's, check out the bars, make some plans. He'd unload the rest of it in Boston or maybe even New York.

All that ever stood between him and the big time was just enough cash to get things rolling. Once he had that—and once he was someplace where they appreciated a man who could think for himself instead of choking down all the stupid rules everybody else insisted he live by—nothing would stop him. He'd finally get everything he deserved.

Keith smiled to himself and hit the gas, ready to leave Storybrooke far, far behind him. As the sign grew larger and clearer, the engine roared to life. Or he thought it had. The roar turned to rumbling groan. The car sputtered and died, rolling to a dead stop just a few feet from the border.

Keith cursed and tried to start it up again. The engine wheezed, choked, and died. He tried again. All he got was dead silence.

Cursing some more, Keith got out of the car. The pavement was wet and slick. Just what he needed. Leave it to this place to throw one more wrench into the gears just as he was about to get out of it forever.

He lifted the hood and took a look at the engine. The tank was full and there was plenty of oil. It wasn't the battery. Keith went through the short list of things he could fix and a few others he couldn't but wasn't able to figure out the problem.

He slammed down the hood. Great, just great. With the sheriff looking for him, it wasn't like he could call a tow. He could just keep walking. Sheriff Graham, always a stickler for rules (or he was where people could see him), wouldn't have dreamed of arresting someone two inches outside of his jurisdiction. Keith figured the new sheriff was just as spineless, but walking away meant leaving all his stuff behind.

Then, he remembered it wasn't his car. No one was looking for this one and wouldn't be for days. He couldn't get it towed from Storybrooke, but what about the next town over? If they asked, he'd say he'd already had the car fixed once in Storybrooke and they ripped him off and didn't even fix anything because here the car was, broken down again. No way was he taking it back to those crooks.

Keith reached for his phone, but it wasn't in his pocket. _Must have left it in the car._ He went pack to get and slipped on the wet pavement. He clutched for the door handle, but all he managed to do was lose his balance even more and get his face whacked against the door going down, landing hard on his ankle.

Keith lay against the cold, wet pavement for a few moments, cursing cars and sheriffs and everything else messing up the world, before hauling himself up. His ankle screamed in pain when he tried to put weight on it. He sat back down on the damp stones, his short, angry gasps turning to silver in the cold air.

 _Great. Now, what?_

He couldn't walk out. He had to get in the car, find his phone, and get help. It might be hours before he could get a ride out of Storybrooke, and his ankle was already swelling like a melon. Keith glared at it. It was his right foot. Would he even be able to drive with it like that?

It didn't matter, Keith decided. He'd done what he was hired to do. If _certain people_ didn't want him talking, he'd get the help he needed.

The keys, where had he put the keys? They weren't in any of his pockets. What had he done with them?

Oh, yeah. He'd had them in his hand, ready to unlock the door (it was a habit of his, something his mother had drilled into him. Always lock your door. It's not like you can trust people). He'd slipped, grabbed for the handle, and. . . .

And he must have dropped the keys. Or they'd been knocked out of his hand as he went down.

 _Bad things happen to people who try to leave Storybrooke._

Keith remembered the mayor's creepy kid going on about the curse he said they were all under. The kid was crazy. Everyone knew it. Now that Keith new about the special wing under the hospital, he wondered how long it would be before the mayor stopped pretending the kid would ever be normal and put him away there where he belonged.

But, the hair was standing up on the back of his neck. Maybe the kid was onto something.

Then, he saw the lights coming down the road. For a moment, he panicked, sure it was the sheriff and ready to crawl into the trees and hide. But, the lights were higher and further placed than the sheriff's bug. And, if it was the town's one police car, wouldn't the red and blue lights be going by now? Why else would she be out here if it wasn't for him?

As it got closer, he could see it was a truck, though he couldn't make out any details. It pulled to a stop, and the driver got out. Sitting on the street, the man looked like a giant. Then, as he strode closer, Keith realized that wasn't why the man looked so big.

"Keith Nott," Dove rumbled, reaching down for him. "Mr. Gold would like a word with you."

X

Guiltily looking at the two cards he'd chosen, David didn't even notice who was standing ahead of him in line till he heard a familiar, Scottish brogue. "Two Valentines," Mr. Gold said. "Sounds like a complicated life."

 _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic,_ David told himself. "Oh, no," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I—I just couldn't decide."

"These are both for the same woman?" There was nothing in Gold's voice or expression that betrayed an ounce of skepticism, despite the bucket loads David felt sure were being dumped on him.

 _Don't be paranoid. He doesn't know. Why should he? Anyhow, you can explain it._ "Well, they're both so. . . ." David looked at the cards, desperately trying to think of something they had in common and failing. ". . . .us," he finished unconvincingly.

"I see," Gold said, and David felt a horrible certainty that he _did_ see. He waited for the killing blow. "Well, you're fortunate to have someone that loves you."

David felt a flood of relief. "I really am."

Gold looked pensive. "Love," he said. "It's like a delicate flame." His eyes were pinched with worry. "And, once it's gone, it's gone forever." His sounded haunted and . . . afraid, though David didn't have a clue why.

Gold seemed to remember David was there. The look—if it had ever been there at all—vanished. "Best of luck to you," Gold said, putting down his purchases, duct tape and a few other hardware supplies.

He'd imagined that look, David decided. Gold obviously meant to spend his Valentine's Day fixing a few problems. He wasn't interested in how guilty someone was feeling so long as the trouble got taken care of.


	11. Motives and Opportunities

Emma saw Gold talking to David as she came into the store. She winced slightly when she saw the duct tape Gold was buying. Nothing like seeing a burglary victim buying repair tools when you were the cop who hadn't caught the crook ( _yet_ , hadn't caught him _yet_ ).

David, being a complete idiot, was doing his Valentine's Day shopping after work on Valentine's Day. And, because he was a complete idiot, he wasn't even getting a box of cheap chocolate or half-wilted flowers, just a Valentine's Day card. Cards. Like no one was going to find that suspicious.

A complete idiot.

There was a big line, because David wasn't the only guy in Storybrooke going out shopping at the last minute, although Emma thought a lot of them were making a better effort than he was. She was thinking about coming back later. It wasn't like this cold case could get any colder.

But, Tom had already seen her. "Can I help you, Sheriff?" he asked, as a tall, almost skeletally thin man with a fringe of gray hair put down a bag of assorted, mini candy bars and a package of _Keane's Frozen Fritter Batter for Do-It-Yourself Fritter-Frying_.

Mr. McKeeby, that was his name. He was married to a small, plump woman who Emma had heard complain you just couldn't get a decent, deep-fried candy bar in the States like you could in Scotland.

The less she knew about that the better.

"I had a few questions," Emma told Tom. "If you've got the time. I can come back tomorrow. . . ."

"No, no, now's good," Tom said. "Hey, Rowley! Get over here! I need you on the register."

A teenage boy restocking shelves and looking very put upon, stopped what he was doing and hurried to the front, a box full of chocolates still in his arms. Tom made way for him and led Emma into the back. "Thanks," he said. "It's been crazy all day, and you wouldn't believe the things people have been asking for. Does this look like a See's Candy store? Do you know how many people I've had to tell we don't stock See's? _Nobody_ stocks See's. Except See's. If your girlfriend wanted See's, you should have ordered it a week ago. Why don't they believe me?" He shook his head. "Sorry, you said you had some questions?"

"Yeah, I'm doing follow up on a cold case of Graham's. He might have asked you about it. There was a woman, Isabel Lacey, who was attacked near here five years ago. Do you remember anything about that night?"

"Oh, yeah, Isabel. That was bad. She was here just before it happened, buying milk."

"Buying milk?" Emma said, thinking of Elizabeth's description, blood and milk pooled up in the alley. "Kind of late to be doing that."

"She said they were all out. Mayor Mills sent her out so Henry would have some for breakfast."

"You remember a lot of details."

"Yeah, well, it was a quiet night. First day of school is always like that. There's a rush of in the afternoon, people getting notebooks and pens they thought they had but couldn't find when they got to class that day, and a few others who are getting graphing paper or whatever it is they just found out they needed. Then, everyone's safe at home doing homework by seven o'clock. I could tell you every person who came in here that night."

"Your memory's that good?" She wanted to believe Tom. It all fit, and these were the details she'd been looking for. But, it had been five years.

Tom shrugged. "Good enough. Besides, I wrote it all down, you know, so I wouldn't forget anything if the sheriff—the old sheriff—asked me about it. I must have been the last person to talk to her before it happened."

If the sheriff asked about it.

If.

"What do you remember?"

"Like I said, it was a slow night. The school secretary stopped in to get Migraine Excedrin and two teachers bought aspirin and antacid. They were out of here by eight. Things were pretty dead until about a quarter to nine. That's when Nott showed up."

"Nott?" Emma said. "Keith Nott?"

"Yeah, I remember. He was picking up stuff for a hangover cure for a friend. He was talking to him on the phone, telling him he'd found the eggs and asking what else the guy wanted him to get, when Isabel came in. That was right before we closed."

"Did he follow her?"

"I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't him. He was still talking to his friend when she left, told him the stuff he wanted wasn't here. I didn't get him out of here till fifteen after. He'd hung up on his friend by then and bought a couple six packs and some aspirin. Isabel would have—If nothing had happened, she would have been home by then. We got Keith out, closed the doors, and got everything locked up. We were out of here by around nine-thirty. It was maybe a half-hour later I heard sirens going down the street, but I didn't know what happened till the next morning."

"You're certain?" Emma said. "Nott was here the whole time?"

"Look, I'd like to think he did it, Sheriff. Makes sense, doesn't it? The town perv. Lock him up and throw away the key. But, whoever did it is still out there. I just hope it was some sicko passing through and that he won't ever come back. If we're really lucky, he's already dead. That's what I told the sher—told Graham when he asked me."

"Graham asked you?" Emma repeated, brightening. Graham _had_ asked. He may not have followed up with Elizabeth but he'd checked with the other witnesses, like Tom. He'd been doing his job.

"Yeah, it was the case he was working on right before he died." He shook his head. "He looked bad when he came in. It was just a couple days before he died, but I didn't know. . . ."

"None of us did," Emma said mechanically. The brief burst of hope died inside her. Right before he died? Graham hadn't followed up any of this till right before he died?

 _When he was getting free of Regina,_ Emma thought. _He was doing the things he would have done all along, if it weren't for her._ Even inside her own head, it sounded weak.

Other details. She needed to focus on other details. This was about Isabel, not Graham. Maybe, when this was done, she'd understand why Graham did what he did. Maybe she wouldn't, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the victim.

OK, first things first. Despite the stories Granny and Ruby had heard, Isabel had been getting milk, not looking for a drunken orgy. Had she known she was in danger?

"Did Isabel seem all right?" Emma asked. "She didn't seem afraid, mention being followed, anything like that?"

"She was fine," Tom said. "The mayor worked her like a dog, always sending her out to take care of things all hours of the day or night. That wasn't the first late night run she got sent on, either. She was here five years and never had a day off once. She looked tired, but that was it. And you kind of expected that. It was Henry's first day of school, after all." Tom grinned. "Did you know Henry called Isabel, 'Mom,' when she came to pick him up? I bet the mayor loved that."

"Isabel told you that?" It was easy for Emma to feel sorry for anyone who worked for Regina—she _wanted_ to think the worst. But, that was letting feelings cloud her judgment. Granny and Ruby had sounded pretty certain about Isabel, too. Tom might be just as mistaken as they were. Was Isabel the type who gossiped about the boss? Maybe played the 'Poor-Me' card?

"Nah, I heard if from some of the moms who'd been in earlier. I asked Isabel if it was true, and she looked all embarrassed, said Henry shouldn't say things like that." Tom grimaced. "I could have offered her a ride home. I mean, it was right before closing. But, you just don't think of stuff like that happening here. And Isabel worked for the mayor. There isn't anyone in town who'll cross her."

 _No, there's not,_ Emma thought.

 _No one . . . except Gold._

X

Emma made one more trip back to Granny's. She searched the office again first, looking for anything else Graham might have left behind about the case, but came up empty. She hesitated by the coatrack before going out. Graham's jacket was still there. It still smelled of his aftershave, a strange, dark smell Emma had never been able to place.

 _Graham, what did you do?_ How _could you let this go?_

She didn't know the answer. But, her gut told her, whatever else had been going on, Graham was an honest cop. Whatever had happened, whatever his reasons, he had been trying to set it right. She had to believe that. She grabbed his jacket, leaving her own behind. _Whatever was going on, Graham, I'm going to see this through for you._

All the roads kept leading back to Gold. But, Emma didn't have anything except hints and insinuations—and she'd already seen how far off those could get. Isabel Lacey, party girl, town tramp, and bar hopper extraordinaire was a nanny who made late night milk runs. If Emma went to Gold with what she had now and if he had something to hide (which he did, he always did), he'd run her in circles. She'd never get the truth out of him.

And there was still a burglary to solve.

When she got to Granny's, it was busy, couples all over the place. Emma wondered if there was something she was missing about the diner or if this was where everyone in Storybrooke had their first date. She was betting on the latter.

Granny was at the counter. Emma knew she didn't live there. She'd seen her at the B&B and out on the street. But, she couldn't remember ever coming into the diner and _not_ seeing Granny there.

Maybe Granny was really twins and one of them was always here. Or triplets. Triplets would work better. One at the counter, one at the B&B, and one taking walks in the fresh air . . . OK, she was tired.

Ruby would be a better person to ask. She'd been friends with Graham—real friends. Maybe she knew Graham was taken, even if she didn't know who by (because there was no way Ruby would have ever kept _that_ a secret), but they'd had a brother-sister vibe Emma had never quite understood, like two cats in a world full of dogs. Wolves. Ruby's thing was wolves. And so was Graham's. Two cat-wolves in a world full of dogs . . . yeah, really tired.

Anyhow, Granny had still known Graham pretty well and generally seemed to approve of him. She might know something.

Emma thought about the different ways she could approach this, but Granny looked even more tired than Emma and a lot more cranky. She decided to go for direct.

"Granny, I'm looking for some—some notes Graham might have left behind. I don't think they were at his apartment." If they were, they were long gone, destined for a landfill. But, Graham would have been careful. If there was anything else he'd written down about this case, something he hadn't hidden in the office, Emma had to believe he'd found a better place for it. "You and Ruby knew him pretty well. Can you think of any place he would have hidden something?"

Granny looked thoughtful, absently rubbing at her arm. "He liked to go to the woods, sometimes," Granny said. "There are cabins up there. I think there was one he rented a few times from Gold. You might try there."

Cabins. This was the second time today someone had mentioned cabins. Who else had brought them up? Oh, that was right. "Hey, Granny, do you know anything about a guy who works at the hospital? Peregrine Ghast?"

"Not much," Granny said. "He likes crepes better than pancakes. Oh, and he had a son."

"Had?"

"He died, I think. Funny thing, Peregrine's been coming in here for years, but I only found out about his son a few weeks ago. I think he must have been a solder. Peregrine said he'd died in the service of his country. What was his name? Gaston, I think."

"Gaston Ghast?"

"I think he changed his name, Captain Gaston, that's what Peregrine called him."

Another mystery, Emma thought, but one she didn't have time for. It wasn't any of her business, anyway.

X

The truck came to an abrupt stop somewhere in the woods. Keith tumbled against the side of it, unable to catch himself with his hands tied behind him. The back of the pickup went down. The huge man, Dove, was there. But, even worse, so was Mr. Gold. He held a gun and was pointing it right at Keith.

"Out," he ordered.

Keith did his best to scramble out, stumbling to the ground.

"Up," Gold said.

Keith moved. At The Rabbit Hole, after a few too many drinks, especially on rent day, there were always a few guys who would start mouthing off about Gold. Small, skinny gimp. Take away the money, and what was left? Who did he think he was, anyway?

That was The Rabbit Hole, one of the few places Gold never went. Keith had still seen more than a couple guys wet their pants when they thought they heard a Scottish accent or the tap of a cane behind them. He'd laughed with everybody else. He wasn't laughing now.

"Take the truck back to town," Gold told Dove. "Check on Isabel." He turned back to Keith. "Walk."

They went into the cabin. It was a small place, simply furnished. There was a bed near the door. Nothing fancy, just a twin. Not a place where people had romantic getaways. Well, of course. This was Gold. Keith had been _told_ the old monster had a young, pretty wife but Keith hadn't seen any evidence of her. The dried up bundle of sticks had probably killed her and buried her in the back yard. Then, when he wanted to get away from it all, he came up to his cabin and thought about who he was going to kill next.

Which was looking like Keith. Even if Gold rented this place out, nobody would be back here before the thaw. Even if Gold left his body here, no one was going to find him before spring.

Something hard hit Keith from behind. He fell down onto the bed. It was hard and lumpy. Rolling over as fast as he could, he tried to think of some way to defend himself. But, the end of Gold's cane was pressing into his throat.

And Gold—Gold didn't look like anything human. His hair had tumbled down, making two, huge shadows where his eyes should be. In the dim light, his skin looked almost metallic. When he spoke, his teeth glittered like so many fangs.

"I'm going to let you breathe in a second," Gold said. "And you're going to say two sentences. The first is going to tell me what you were told to do. The second is going to tell me who told you to do it. Do you understand the rules?"

"Keith couldn't speak but he mouthed the word. "Yeah."

"Good. Let's begin."

Gold lifted the cane though he still held it ready. Keith had no doubt the man could beat him to death—no doubt he _wanted_ to beat him to death. "The nanny, Isabel. I was supposed to get her." He saw Gold's knuckles whiten around the cane. "We weren't supposed to hurt her! We—we were just going to—to scare you, make you realize you can't go around doing whatever you want to people. That was all!"

Gold gave him a too toothy smile. "I can't, can I? And who is 'we'? Who was in on this with you?"

Keith swallowed around the pain in his throat. Gold lifted his cane, ready to strike.

"Peregrine Ghast!" Keith yelped. "It was all his idea! He was going to lock her up, and pay me off. That's all I know!"

"Peregrine Ghast?" Gold stared at him. "From the hospital?"

"There's a secret psych ward. He was going to hide her there. No one was supposed to get hurt. We were just going to scare you! I swear, that was all!"

"Why?" Gold's voice fell to a soft, deadly whisper. "Why would Ghast want to help you do this?"

"He—he just said what everybody said. Isabel was a troublemaker. Said he had a son. Bright kid, golden future, and Isabel ruined it for him."

Gold stared at him. "Ghast," he said. "Chevalier de Ghaston."

"Gaston, yeah, that's what he said was the kid's name."

Gold was pulling out his phone. "Dove," he said. "Get to Isabel, now! Don't let anyone but me into the house. Peregrine Ghast was behind it. He's trying to kill her."


	12. Real and Unreal

Isabel should have asked Gold to stay. She desperately wished he was there, with her, holding her, telling her it would be all right.

 _He did that for hours. Do you want him to stay with you the rest of his life? To never go outside, or speak to anyone else? To be as trapped as you are?_

She was broken, crippled, and had been since that night. She remembered walking home, the milk icy cold in her hands. It was late, but the street was well lit. The alley . . . she couldn't remember the alley.

She must have seen it. Whether there was enough light to see garbage cans and brickwork or whether it was lost in shadow, she must have _seen_ it. It must have registered that it was there, even if she ignored it.

And her attacker. She must have seen her attacker. Even if he were just another shadow lost in the shadows, there must have been something that she'd seen, even if she hadn't known what it was.

But, the first sign of danger she could remember was gloved hand closing over her mouth, smelling of leather and myrrh, as the attacker's other hand closed around her and pulled her back.

He'd been a big man. She was sure of that. Her best chance would have been if she'd seen him, if she'd had time to scream or run.

But, even knowing that, she couldn't help thinking of all the things she could have done differently, how she might have fought or struck back. If nothing else, she could have thrown the milk at him. Instead, she remembered it flying out of her hands. Had he knocked it aside or had she just lost her grip on it? She didn't know. It was useless, either way.

He'd said nothing the whole time. He'd beaten and crushed her like a mad animal, but he never said a word. It was almost as if she weren't there. There was no person named Isabel Lacey, just an object he was determined to break and grind into the dirt as thoroughly as Henry knocking down a tower of bricks. They were both of them blank and soulless.

She wanted Gold. She remembered what it had been like when he showed up in the hospital, driving back the mayor and her monsters, keeping her safe. It reminded her of when she was a child and her dragon man had suddenly appeared and rescued her.

Gold had been the only person she talked to about her dragon man since her adoptive parents died. She hadn't told Henry stories about him, not even disguised as the half-remembered fairy tales her childish imagination had turned them into—although that might have been reason enough to keep silent. The mayor hated any stories that weren't solidly anchored in the real world. Even stories about Australia were looked at askance, as if it were another world Henry might go searching for through a wardrobe or down a rabbit hole.

 _Had she ever seen her dragon man hurt someone? Had she ever been afraid of him?_

Gold had asked her that, once. Something had been eating at him these last few weeks. He looked at her with guilt in his eyes. She remembered how hard she had had to work to seduce him, long after their marriage. It was as if he couldn't believe anyone found him attractive.

But, this was different. He kept acting as if he'd done something wrong, as if he'd failed her, as if everything that ever happened to her were his fault.

Deep down, she thought that was why she'd let him go instead of begging him to stay. She'd seen the look in his eyes, she'd known what was eating him alive. Whatever wrong he thought he'd committed, he needed to do this to set it right.

 _Maybe I don't_ care _what he wants. Maybe I just want him_ here.

When he asked about the dragon man, she knew, in some way, he was asking about himself.

Isabel wondered about those fantastic memories and tried to make sense of them. Some were easy. She knew her legs had been so weak she could barely walk when her dragon man had freed her. Rickets and inactivity. She remembered wearing sparkling, golden stockings—as a child, she would have sworn they were magic—that let her run and play as she grew stronger. Those would have been metal braces. If she hadn't exactly run wild in them, well, it must have _seemed_ she could after so long with not even the small freedom they gave her.

As for her dragon man himself, she had a few stories she made up for herself about him. People had been afraid of him, she knew that. And he had never come to see her or even written her once she was sent to her new home. The Laceys had been told next to nothing about him.

Isabel suspected he had been on the wrong side of the law, a fence or a smuggler maybe, someone who could walk right into a house on the wrong side of town, pick up a child, and walk out with her. And no one dared stop him.

But, there was one memory in particular she remembered when Gold asked her that question.

She'd told Gold how she remembered her Rumplestiltskin's home as a grand castle, even though it was probably just a large house, and how she remembered running through it with her little dog, the first Wee Jock, dressed in wild princess dresses patchworked together from velvets, lace, silk, and wild embroidery stitched together with golden thread. . . . Well, the patchwork was probably right.

She'd also told him how, whenever she was scared or strangers came, she pretended her dragon man could turn her into a cat. That was an obvious enough game for an abused child to play. Whenever things became too much, she pretended she was something strangers would ignore and that didn't have to deal with all the feelings a frightened, little girl would.

So, she was a cat the day the stranger came, the one Rumplestiltskin had hurt.

The stranger, as she remembered him, had looked like a prince, handsome and tall. He wore what she remembered as a blood red coat with golden buckles, a silver sword at his side (although, if she were right and the dragon man had been involved in the criminal world, maybe it had been some other, less idealized weapon).

And . . . he had offered to buy her.

That's what she remembered. Maybe she'd been wrong.

She _must_ have been wrong. She remembered him offering the dragon man ten children to do whatever he wanted with, in return for her.

A nightmare, that's what it must have been. A dream cobbled together from fears and whatever a small child imagined adults were saying when she couldn't make sense of them.

Ten children. Rumplestiltskin could have his pick of any in the kingdom.

Any but one. The prince's daughter.

Not because he loved her. Not because he wanted to keep her safe. But, because (and this was why she knew it had to be a nightmare) the prince's daughter had to take Isabel's place, to be locked up and beaten in Isabel's place. It was, he said, the only way _his_ father could become king.

Ghaston, that was what he said his name was, the Chevalier de Ghaston.

Purple and gold mist rose up from the ground around the prince. Isabel still remembered the sound of his screaming.

"I'm sorry," Gold whispered when she finished telling him. "I shouldn't—you should never have witnessed that. It doesn't matter what kind of deal Ghaston tried to make, I—he shouldn't have done that in front of you."

"It was a dream," Isabel said. "If it meant anything, it meant I was safe. And that it wasn't my fault. The prince—anyone who would do that to a child—that's who deserved to be punished. Not me."

"No," Gold agreed. "Not you."

 _Not me,_ Isabel whispered to herself. _Not me._

She hadn't deserved what happened to her as a child. And she hadn't deserved what happened to her as an adult. She didn't deserve what was happening now.

Isabel took a deep breath. She was sick of running. The fear eating away at her was something she could fight. She opened her eyes and looked at the closet.

 _I'm not afraid of you, not anymore. Whatever you want, you won't be getting it from me._

She would fight this, she and Gold together. No matter what it took, she was going to be free.

Isabel heard a key turn in the door. She breathed easier as the door opened, but it wasn't Gold on the other side. It was Dove.

"Mrs. Gold," he said, stepping into the house. He was worried—maybe even terrified, though it was hard to tell with Dove. He'd never set foot in the house before without her or Gold's express permission. "Are you all right? Mr. Gold was afraid—"

He stopped abruptly, eyes widening in surprise. Dove started to turn and look behind him. But, before he could complete the gesture, he slumped slowly to his knees. Then, he fell to the floor. Blood flowed from his back.

"Hello, Princess," Peregrine Ghast said, a blood-covered knife in his hand. "You and I have some unfinished business."


	13. Small Mercies

The man known as Peregrine Ghast felt a twinge of regret as he slid the knife into Gold's henchman. Dove was a loyal man just doing his duty, after all. When Peregrine noticed the man was still breathing as he stepped over him, he didn't stop to correct his mistake. Peregrine wasn't a killer, after all. His plans didn't require a good man's death.

Regina might not understand that mercy, but Peregrine didn't care. The mayor might be ruthless, but that was why she was going to be grateful for what he did for her. The little details—a man who lived when he should have died—wouldn't matter to her.

Regina had found him as he was filing papers, Peregrine Ghast, a lifeless drone carrying out the same, endless, daily tasks. Then, he was Sepulchrave of Omelas, cousin of King Maurice and heir to the throne.

He had never claimed the throne, of course. A king must complete the ceremony before the crown was rightfully his. It was the first duty of any ruler, the sacrifice that kept their land safe and prosperous. That failure had cost his people dearly as the Ogres moved into their lands, harvests failed, and sickness and hunger spread.

Still, he had tried to do his best for them. Though he had not claimed the title, he had tried to do the duty of a king. He had organized the fight against their enemies, opened up the treasuries and their centuries of wealth to buy food and mercenaries, and offered rewards for any news of the Princess Belle.

One day, a small bird with a message tied to its clawed foot had arrived. It said the child was being kept in the castle of the Dark One. It was signed with the seal of a golden jonquil, the mark of the Yellow Fairy.

Sepulchrave had summoned his council together and discussed the matter at length. The Dark One was known for collecting small children. There were rumors he also sold them—for the right price—the some suggested he had _other_ uses for the tender young.

Of course, it might be simply that the Dark One's interest was more practical. The princess, after all, was the cornerstone of the spell defending the kingdom. If the Dark One wanted knowledge of the spell, Sepulchrave would gladly give him all the knowledge they had of it. Not that it would help him. The spell was light magic, impossible for the Dark One to recreate or twist to his own use. But, what did that matter if it would save the people?

But, children. That was a price the Dark One never refused. The council decided. Let the Dark One have all he wanted, the pick of the best the land had to offer, five, ten, a dozen if necessary, any except Sepulchrave's own grandchild, Blanche.

If Ghaston had wanted, he could have claimed the throne. He would have been within his rights to do so when his child would be the one offered up to fulfill the royal duty. But, he was a loyal son. The only title he would claim was of chevalier, a mere knight. When a messenger had to be found to treat with the Dark One, Ghaston volunteered for the task.

He never returned.

It had been a risk. The Dark One was capricious. He might have been angered by a misspoken word or he might have found it amusing to transform the messenger. Sepulchrave didn't know. The oracles and wizards he consulted could tell him nothing. Even the fairies didn't seem to know.

Then, young Blanche had vanished, taken away in the night, and her nurse along with her.

Sepulchrave, focused on protecting his people, had still managed to send out searchers and do everything he could to find the child, but it had all been useless. Whoever—or whatever—had made off with his granddaughter wasn't bringing her back.

Oh, he suspected the Dark One. The one thing Ghaston wouldn't give him. Of course, that would be the prize the Dark One had to claim.

But, how? The demon, by all reports, followed certain rules. He bargained for children, he didn't steal them. Had he somehow tricked Ghaston into making that deal? Ghaston, who knew Blanche's value and who would have given his life to protect Omelas? Surely, a mere servant, like the child's nurse, had no right to sell her charge.

It was a mystery, and one Sepulchrave could never solve. He did, however, offer to step down as Omelas' leader. Unable to fulfill the first duty of a king, he had no claim to their loyalty. But, the people and the council wouldn't hear of it. Until the princess could be retrieved, Sepulchrave was their surest protection. Their faith in him had humbled him, and Sepulchrave had sworn to do his best to be worthy of it.

But, it was a hopeless war. People began to flee, abandoning their homeland for kingdoms the Ogres had not yet turned their attention to. Others sent those too old or young to fight to safety while they continued to hold the line. Even if they won, Omelas would be broken, lost.

He thought of sending word to the Dark One again, begging him for aid, offering whatever price he demanded this time. But, before he could, messengers came telling him the Dark One himself had been taken, imprisoned in a cage beneath the earth by the Blue Fairy and her sisters.

Sepulchrave had felt a surge of hope and begged Reul Ghorm for news of the princess. But, though the Blue Fairy swore she and her sisters had done their best, they could find no sign of Belle.

Sepulchrave shuddered to think what fate the child might have met at the Dark One's hands, but she was gone. Even her bones were lost to them. She would never lie in the marble tombs of the princes and princesses, honored so long as Omelas stood for the sacrifice they had made.

So long as Omelas stood. But, the day when Omelas itself was nothing more than a memory seemed to be drawing close. Then, Sepulchrave received a message. He had no idea how it came to his chambers. For all he knew, a rat or flittering bat had dropped it here. It was scrawled on a filthy, smelly rag that looked as if it been torn from a larger, rotting cloth. The words written on it looked to have been made with a mixture of ash.

 _Don't worry, dearie. Time's up._

As he finished reading the words, he looked out and saw the black cloud of Regina's curse rolling towards them, devouring everything in its path till it swallowed them up.

That was the last he knew till Regina came and woke him up.

She told him of the Dark One, how he lived in this town, and of the one thing he seemed to love.

Sepulchrave doubted that. The Dark One, by all accounts, was incapable of love. The wife he kept locked up in his home was, no doubt, nothing more to him than another coin or gem in his hoard. But, dragons were said to be willing to tear the whole world apart if the smallest scrap of gold was taken from them. Sepulchrave had no doubt the Dark One would do the same for this woman he had gathered up.

However, as Sepulchrave had looked at an old photo of Isabel Lacey Gold, he had realized who she was, impossible as it seemed. But, the hair, the eyes, even her name, it was unmistakable. She was Belle, Princess of Omelas.

"Can I trust you to do this?" Regina asked.

"Is there any reason you shouldn't?" Sepulchrave said. He could feel himself smiling at her, which seemed to discomfit the mayor. But, he couldn't help it. His son could have been a ruler like her, bold, determined, ruthless in pursuing what she saw as hers by right, no matter what it cost her.

"Some people might think twice of working for the Evil Queen."

"Hardly evil, you majesty. Your curse saved my people when nothing else could. You have kept them safe for twenty-eight years. I would have paid any price to do as much for them."

"Hmph. Well, that curse is under siege. If we aren't very careful, it will be broken before long. That's why I need you to shake up Gold, so I can make use of him again."

"Your majesty, there is another way."

She raised an eyebrow. "Trying to back out?"

"Hardly. You've heard of the spell of Omelas? The protection the city had?"

"A protection that was broken. What about it?"

"It was not broken. Not exactly. The spell needed to be nurtured, kept alive, and the line of kings failed in their duty to maintain it. But, I studied all the ancient lore concerning it, trying to reestablish it. And I learned how. The key piece was in the Dark One's hands, and I was unable to make a bargain with him before the fairies imprisoned him. But, I know how it can be done. You are the queen of this land. You have all that is necessary to recreate it. The spell can shore up your curse, and your curse can shore up the spell—its one weakness has always been that it must be passed on from ruler to ruler. An immortal queen in an unchanging land can maintain the spell forever."

"Magic is tricky in this land, difficult and not always the way you expect it to be. We can discuss the spell after you've dealt with Rumplestiltskin."

He bowed. He was not a king, after all, and never had been. But, as of that moment, he accepted Regina as his queen. "Your majesty, if I do this for you, you will have everything you need for the spell. The only question is whether you have the strength to do it."

Regina gave him a razor-edged smile. "If you know anything about me, you know I can do whatever it takes."

She had left him to his planning. Things had fallen into place quickly enough. Keith Nott had turned up, the perfect pawn. After Gold repossessed his car, it was easy to convince him to help in a little revenge. Sepulchrave hadn't even needed any of the carefully crafted stories and explanations he'd made for why he wanted to help Keith get revenge on Gold. The one thing he'd worried about was sending Keith in to get Isabel. He'd done his best to impress on him the importance of keeping Isabel alive—she had to be alive for the first part of the ceremony—but it would be just like Keith to mess that up.

In the end, he needn't have worried. Wherever Isabel was, she managed to hide from Keith's booze addled eyes.

It didn't matter. Gold knew his den had been broken into and, avaricious beast that he was, he would spare no effort till brought down the one responsible. Sepulchrave only had to keep him out of sight until he was ready to make his own search of Gold's home.

He hid Keith in the hidden wing of the hospital. Keith, finding himself locked up in a hidden cell no one except a handful of hospital staff knew existed (all of whom would have left Keith there and never opened the door again if Sepulchrave had asked it) didn't even have the sense to feel nervous. When Sepulchrave let him out, he didn't even say thank you, just grunted, "About time."

Sepulchrave smiled and gave him the keys to his car. The curse wouldn't let Keith leave, but Sepulchrave had made a few adjustments to the engine all the same. It ought to break down before Keith cleared the town line.

Then, it was just a matter of making sure Mr. Dove knew where to find him. Not Mr. Gold. Dove was clever in his way, but Sepulchrave thought he could tip him off about Keith without arousing suspicion. He didn't stand a chance at fooling Gold.

The sheriff's appearance had been unexpected, especially when she began asking about Isabel Lacey, but Sepulchrave thought he'd dealt with her. If she did anything, she'd be looking at the cabins in the woods where, sooner or later, she would come across Mr. Gold having a little chat with Keith. That ought to keep her out of his way long enough.

"Hello, Princess," he said to Mrs. Gold. He had memorized how the ceremony was to be completed. He felt a twinge of pity for her. She, of course, couldn't understand her role in this, the lives that would be saved because of her and the honor she was restoring to her family's house by fulfilling her duty. He wished he could explain it to her in a way that wouldn't convince her he was mad.

Not that his part would be any more pleasant. The ceremony was grisly, after all. He was always a man who preferred the quick, clean blow, even for his worst enemies. It went against the grain to refuse that to one of his own people, a member of his own house.

But, it had to be done. The ritual must be completed properly, and Princess Belle must be alive till the moment he took the heart out of her chest.

Henry, at least, didn't need to be there to see that. Though it had been part of the long tradition to bring each new child to see the death of their predecessor (and it had no doubt made the transfer quicker and easier), it had never been necessary. The queen's son, at least, would be spared that.

He expected Regina would be grateful, when he explained that to her, the one kindness they would be able to show Henry. Regina, of course, would understand when he explained what needed to be done. Sepulchrave had seen the name on the mayor's family tomb. He could guess what it had taken to cast her curse and didn't doubt she would pay what was necessary to protect it.

After all, as she herself had said, she would pay, "whatever it takes."

Holding the knife tight in his hand, Sepulchrave walked towards Belle. "You and I have some unfinished business," he told her.


	14. Final Meetings

_She knew him._

Isabel felt no shock, no fear at the memory. She had been locked in the dark in the closet, tensing as the door was unlocked, not knowing if it signaled another beating, a rare bowl of food, or something else entirely.

This time it was strangers come to stare at her, a man and his son. Looking back, she thought the boy was twelve or so, only coming up to his father's shoulder, his voice still high pitched and unchanged. To her small, child-self, he looked like a hero.

"Is that her, Father?" the boy asked. "Is that the princess?"

Princess."Prince" she understood. "Princess" meant nothing, not when it was aimed at her, a sound, a string of noises. _Princess._

"That's her," the father said. He looked at the guards who always stood by the door. "Let us see her."

One of the guards grunted. He went into the closet and kicked her. "Get up, brat. Let them get a better look at you."

Isabel scrambled to obey. It hadn't been a hard kick, barely enough to bruise, but she knew worse would be coming if she didn't do as she was told. However long she'd been there, though, her legs were already too weak to hold her. Terror let her manage a tottering second or two before her legs crumpled under her.

The guard cursed and grabbed her by the hair, twisting it around his fist as he yanked her upwards. The boy went pale. Isabel saw the sympathy in his eyes.

"Please," she whispered, her voice weak and raspy from disuse. "Please, I'll be good. Let me go. I won't be bad anymore. Please."

The boy turned to the man beside him. "Father. . . ?"

The man spoke to his son kindly but firmly. "You promised me you could do this, Ghaston."

The boy stood a little straighter, trying to look resolved. "Yes, Father." He looked back at Isabel and faltered. "And, if Maurice hadn't—hadn't agreed, that—that—"

The man nodded gravely. "That would be you, yes. It is the honor and duty of our house, to suffer so others do not, to be strong enough to endure so others may have peace."

"And to walk away," the boy said, still pale.

"Yes. To speak no kind word; to perform no kind act; and, when all is done, to turn your back and walk away. If you cannot do these three then, in the end, you will be one of those who turns your back on your city and your people. You will abandon them and never return. Her test is to endure her suffering. Our test is to endure knowing she suffers. Do you understand?"

The boy, tight-lipped, nodded. The father turned to the guard. "Enough. We're done here."

The guard dropped her, giving a quick bow. "As you wish, Lord Sepulchrave." He stepped over Belle as if she were so much track, closing the door behind him, leaving her along in the dark.

Isabel stared at the man, icily calm, despite the bloody knife in his hand. Too many memories, too many nightmares crowding her mind. How many times had she relived this in her mind, helpless, unarmed, and a stranger coming to kill her?

Or not a stranger.

"I know you," she said.

The man stopped, stunned. "No one knows me, not here."

"Ghaston's father." She remembered the man who had come to see her dragon. He had been Ghaston, too. A man, not a boy. But, his face had been the same. She didn't trouble herself with that mystery. Ghaston said he was acting on his father's behalf. "Sepulchrave. Of Omelas."

The man tightened his grip on his knife. "Regina's been talking, I see. It doesn't change anything. You still need to die."

He lunged at her. Isabel screamed as loud as she was able. As a young girl, on one of their trips into town, the Laceys had taken her to see _Beauty and the Beast._ She'd loved nearly all of it but she'd been deeply disgusted with Belle for not screaming even once when she was fighting off the wolves. Sometimes, animals were frightened off by loud noises. Besides, someone might hear you and come help. Even if they didn't, when you were facing a whole pack of wolves, screaming and going crazy was the best chance you had, so long as you were fighting back.

She ducked to the side. Still screaming, she grabbed the hatrack, she swung it down onto his arm while pushing forward, shoving the coatrack into his chest. It was heavy oak—nothing Gold owned was light and cheap—and Sepulchrave stumbled back a step.

She thought she had him, but he dropped the knife and took the coatrack with both hands. He twisted it. Isabel thought he was trying to pull it away from her and tried to pull it back, but that was what he'd been expecting her to do. Sepulchrave slammed the wood towards her, into her stomach, knocking her hard onto the floor, pinning her down with the wood.

"Be quiet!" Sepulchrave ordered. "It's over—" One of her arms was pinned under the hatrack, but she pulled the other free, and reached for his eye with her nails.

Five years ago, she'd hesitated. Five years ago, it took her too long to realize she was fighting for her life. Not this time. Sepulchrave pulled back. She missed his eye but she dragged her nails along his cheek, drawing blood.

Sepulchrave pulled farther back. Isabel twisted, trying to get shove him off her and get her other hand free. He slammed his fist into her face. The blow stunned her, cutting off her screams. "I said be _quiet._ " He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, dark and tarnished. "This will hurt a little less if you don't fight me," he said, seizing her free hand.

"No, dearie," a familiar, beautiful, Scottish brogue said as a gold handle came crashing against Sepulchrave's skull. "This will hurt a lot no matter what you do."

Sepulchrave turned, half-lifting the hatrack, as if he had some idea of using it as a weapon. "Dark One—you can't—she has to die—" Gold's cane caught Sepulchrave across the mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, the handcuffs slipping from his hand, as he collapsed back onto Isabel.

Gold knelt down beside them, pushing Sepulchrave off her. He grabbed the manacles and pulled Sepulchrave's hands behind his back, cuffing him.

Isabel pushed the hatrack away and, shakily, started to sit up, but her limbs were like spaghetti. Gold reached for her and pulled her into a tight embrace.


	15. Things Remembered

"Dove," Isabel said. "He killed Dove."

Gold didn't let go of her but he loosened his grip enough to turn and follow her gaze. His eyes widened as if he hadn't even noticed Dove was there before she mentioned him.

She tried to think what the last few minutes must have been like for him. He must have been running towards the house while she was screaming and trying to fight off Sepulchrave. And then she'd . . . stopped. When that happened, he hadn't even noticed the body in his way.

"He's bleeding," Gold said, letting go of her.

"What?" Isabel didn't understand—and didn't want to let go of him.

"He's _bleeding_ ," Gold said, breaking free and stumbling across the room, grabbing the knife Sepulchrave must have dropped before kneeling down by Dove's side.

 _He shouldn't do that,_ Isabel thought. _It's a murder weapon. Now, his prints will be all over it._

"He's still alive," Gold said before she could protest. He cut a big swath of fabric from Dove's coat, folding it into layers and pushing it into Dove's wound. "Duct tape. There's duct tape in the kitchen. Get it for me."

Isabel rant to the kitchen and got the tape from the drawer. Gold nodded when she came back with it. "Unroll some, about a foot and a half." He lifted one hand away from the wound just long enough to slice the tape free of the roll. "Good," he said. "Now, tape down the cloth."

He half lifted Dove, so she could get the tape anchored by his ribs. Somehow, he managed to keep his hands down on the makeshift bandage until the last second. Then, he helped press it tightly in place. He had her unroll two more pieces, fixing it and cutting off as much of the bleeding as he could.

Something stirred uneasily in the back of Isabel's mind. _He's strong,_ she thought. Stronger than she'd ever realized, the way he shifted Dove. And this didn't look like it was the first time he'd had to help someone who was wounded like this.

Gold put two fingers against Dove's neck, checking his pulse. He frowned. There was an uncertainty in his eyes Isabel didn't understand. Abruptly, he seemed to come to a decision. "Isabel, the large, leather case in the basement, you know the one I mean. I need it. There's something in there. . . ." He trailed off. The basement was where Gold kept odds and ends he was working on. Some of them, like the leather case, had been neatly sitting in place and collecting dust for years. Isabel couldn't imagine what he'd be storing down there that would be useful right now.

"Will it help?"

He got that look he did when he was considering dozens—maybe hundreds—of possibilities and outcomes and boiling them down to one answer. He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe."

Maybe. Isabel understood about _maybe._ It was always better than having not hole at all. She nodded and ran to the door by the kitchen where the door leading to the basement was. Behind her, Gold must have pulled out his phone. She heard him saying, "911? This is Mr. Gold. I have an emergency." He was using his calm, unruffled, Mr. Gold voice.

If it were anyone besides Gold, they'd probably assume he'd called the wrong number from his tone alone. This being Storybrooke, the people on the other end were already calling out the marines. Or she hoped they were.

She found the case just where it always was—Gold was always meticulous, even with the things he never intended to use—but the thin layer of dust was gone from the aged leather. She wondered what was in it and whether or not it could help. Ancient bandages? An antique doctor's kit? Hundred year old medicines?

 _Please, let it help,_ she thought as she grabbed it and ran back up the stairs. _And, if it's hundred year old medicines, don't let them be ones that turn poisonous if they've been sitting too long. And ones that aren't illegal now wouldn't hurt._

She got to the top of the stairs and raced through the kitchen. She was almost back to the front when she heard something that made her blood freeze.

"Dark One."

It was Sepulchrave. He was awake again.

Isabel peered around the doorway. Despite the handcuffs, the man was struggling to get up.

He was larger than both of them. Isabel remembered fighting him. He was strong and knew what he was doing, barehanded or with a knife. Even with his hands bound, Isabel was afraid of what he could do.

Gold was too. He was up and across the room before Isabel could blink, despite his leg. Isabel shivered. Gold's movements were always slow and measured. Even his limp seemed dignified and deliberate or it did to people who were already scared to death at the sight of him.

The way he moved now was fast and . . . _wrong_ somehow. As if it wasn't a limp. As if his leg was fine, it just wasn't put together in quite a human way.

Sepulchrave was already pulling himself up and nearly standing by the time Gold reached him. He'd dropped the dagger—Isabel could see it lying by Dove—but he had his cane. He got Sepulchrave across the neck and knocked him back to the ground.

"Were you talking to me, dearie?" His voice was strange. High-pitched. _Familiar._

He pinned Sepulchrave to the ground, crouched over him like a giant spider, the cane across his throat. Sepulchrave looked back at him with complete calm. "Dark One—Gold—You know what she is. You know why I had to do this."

"Had to, dearie? You didn't _have_ to do anything. Especially _this._ "

"She needs to die! She was supposed to die!"

Gold's cane struck Sepulchrave across the face. "Needs to?" He struck him again. " _Needs_ to?" Another blow. "You broke into my home." Strike. "You stabbed a man." Strike. " _You tried to murder my wife._ " _Strike._ "And you're telling _me_ who needs to die?"

Dark closets. Beatings. Blows. A part of Isabel knew she should stop this, knew she should step in before there were two bodies lying in her home.

Another part remembered Sepulchrave bringing his son to look at her and telling the boy he would have done the same thing to him. She remembered Chevalier de Ghaston offering to trade children's lives for the chance to murder her.

A hand reached out from behind Gold as he raised his cane again, catching it.

"Stop!"

The sheriff looked at Gold in horror. Isabel cringed at that look, even though she knew how this must look to the sheriff. There was blood across Gold's suit from where he'd knelt beside Dove and been splattered while bandaging his wound. One man was half-dead. The other was handcuffed and beaten within an inch of his life.

Quietly, Isabel put down the leather case where (she hoped) it wouldn't be seen. The door was still open on the outside world. Strangers—armed and deadly ones—were coming into her house. But, she could face them, she could deal with them and explain.

She remembered Regina's sly, vicious lies as she lay in the hospital. She remembered Dr. Hopper and even Graham asking questions that seemed to have nothing to do with what she was saying, as if they were having a conversation between themselves and some imaginary Isabel in their heads and she should have just been quiet and stopped interrupting.

 _I can_ try _to explain._

There was the sound of sirens as the ambulance her husband had called drove up to the house.

Isabel took a deep breath, trying to calm the terror she felt. She had to act now, before even more strangers came pouring in and things became even madder than they were. Now, before she lost her nerve entirely.

She started to speak. And, then, the smell hit her, familiar, terrifying.

Myrrh.

It hadn't changed at all since the night she was attacked.


	16. When Time Stops

The scene made no sense. Or it made lots of sense, too much sense.

There were more old, unused cabins around Storybrooke than Emma thought a town like this needed. But, Ghast had been right. She found Nott in the third one she checked. Finding him all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey had been a surprise.

Gold had done it. Of course, Gold had done it. Emma had never expected for five seconds that Gold wouldn't have done this if he got to Nott first. If anything, she was surprised Nott still had all his major limbs attached and in one piece, not counting a sprained ankle that she gathered Nott had done on his own.

The hard part was getting Nott to shut up long enough for Emma to read him his rights. She did manage to get through them between his tirades but, given his outrage when she put the cuffs on him, Emma didn't think it had registered.

 _Fine. The law says I have to read him his rights. It doesn't say I have to beat him on the head till he LISTENS to his rights._

Arresting people wasn't that different than nabbing them for bail-jumping. There was a lot of swearing and insulting, all of it familiar to the point of being boring. People who did creative insults weren't dumb enough to jump bail. Or break into Gold's house. Or maybe they just weren't dumb enough to get caught.

But, between all the swearing and outrage, Emma picked up on a couple of facts. Gold had brought Nott here—and Gold had suddenly taken off for home.

"Why would he do that?" Emma asked.

"It was when I told him about—" Nott's eyes went wide, as if he were realizing what he was about to say, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"Told him about what?" Emma pressed.

"Nothing," Nott said with something that might have been self-preservation. "Absolutely _nothing._ "

Which meant, whatever the nothing was, it was a really bad one. If it involved Gold, it was a _really_ bad one.

Emma shoved Nott into the back of the police car and took off for Gold's house. Whatever was going on, she didn't think she had time to drop the prisoner off in a cell first.

That's what she'd told herself as she raced through the town and swerved around two stray dogs who should have known better. And she'd been right. Or completely wrong.

The big man Emma thought of as "Gold's Evil Minion" but everyone else called "Dove" was lying in a pool of blood. What looked like the murder weapon was lying right beside him. Gold was covered in blood and beating a second man to death—Ghast. Even though there was no sane reason—and no insane reason either—for Ghast to be there.

The next five minutes—and it really was only five minutes—were awful. Emma had to protect a crime scene, take pictures of it, arrest a man, read him his rights, and not get in the way of the ambulance crew who wanted to move the bodies and trample all over the evidence. And she had to do it all at the same time.

Seriously, if Henry were right and magic was real, she knew what she could do with some right now.

Once that was done and Gold was in the back of the police car (alongside Nott. But, unless a fully qualified deputy decided to drop out of the sky, she didn't see that she had much choice besides hoping they didn't kill each other before she got them locked up), Emma went and had a word with the EMTs.

Short version: Both men were alive, and they thought they might stay alive—or they might if amateur sheriffs stayed out of their way and let them do their job. Nott only had a sprained ankle. They didn't have room for him and they didn't need him.

Emma took some more pictures of the crime scene, hoped she hadn't missed anything important, and drove away. She didn't see the woman silently watching her go.

X

Isabel needed to go to the sheriff.

She needed to go.

She _had_ to go.

Curled up in the corner just outside the kitchen as darkness closed around her, Isabel knew what had to done. She needed to get up. She needed to go out the door with the crime scene tape the sheriff had put over it after putting the knife in a bag (the knife that would have her husband's fingerprints on it, the knife Dove hadn't seen Sepulchrave slip into his back, that he couldn't testify Gold _hadn't_ stabbed him with).

 _Get up._

 _Move._

She should have spoken to the sheriff when she was here. She _meant_ to.

Then, she smelled it, a scent that five years wasn't enough to make her forget: Myrrh mixed with other, more subtle odors, ones she couldn't name but would always remember. The world had gone dark around her.

She hadn't fainted. It wasn't as simple as that. The world just _stopped._ Or she did. When the darkness began to roll back, she was still standing just where she had been. Frozen. Unmoving.

Fainting would have been easy compared to that. The sheriff would have heard her as she crashed into the floor. If she fallen into the room, she supposed even the most oblivious EMTs would have noticed a third body and collected her with the others. They would have known she was there and would have been able to figure out all on their own that this was a witness.

And she'd have woken up in the hospital, surrounded by people who had already decided what she was going to say.

 _I can't let them do that, not this time._

 _I need to talk to the sheriff._

 _Get up,_ she told herself. _Move._

She stayed curled up in the dark.

The phone rang.

Isabel stared at it. It lay across a blood stained floor, the place where Dove had fallen, where Sepulchrave had tried to kill her, where the sheriff had arrested her husband and taken him away.

It rang again.

Slowly, as if her body were a rusty, metal puppet on icicle strings, Isabel got up. She walked across the room and picked up the phone.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded rusty, too. Off-kilter. Wrong.

"Who is this?"

 _Who is this?_

Isabel remembered a story with a woman who didn't understand why people were horrified at the sight of her or demanded to know why she was there until she finally realized she was dead. She'd come back as a ghost.

 _Who is this?_

She was hollow and empty. Maybe Sepulchrave had killed her after all, and she was the dead ghost of Isabel, haunting her own house.

Saying that was too complicated. The words wouldn't come. Not that it mattered. The speaker went on before she could even try.

"Is this Lacey? Mrs. Gold? You know who I mean."

 _No, I don't think I do. Not anymore._ "Who is this?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. This is Leroy. At the hospital. They just took Dove into surgery. He wouldn't let them take him till I promised to call you."

Dove wouldn't let them? He'd regained consciousness? That had to be a good sign. Didn't it?

Her silence must have gone on too long. "This is Mrs. Gold, isn't it?"

So many answers to that question. Isabel went with the simplest one, even if she wasn't sure how close it came to the truth. "Yes, this is Isabel."

"You OK? I hear a lot happened."

Isabel bit back on the hysterical laughter she could feel bubbling up. Or tried to. She didn't know if she managed or not. Leroy either didn't hear or didn't comment. "I'm . . . OK." Truth? Lie? Not important, not now. "Leroy, I—I need your help."

"You got it. What do you need?"

Isabel swallowed. _I can do this._

 _I_ have _to do this._

"A ride," she whispered. "Leroy, I need a ride."

X

Emma watched Gold sitting quietly in his cell, deep in thought. She tried to tell herself that it was good he was quiet. If Nott were here, it would just be a repeat—a loud repeat—of everything he'd said up at the cabin. Over and over again.

Although, Nott had been uncharacteristically silent all the way to the hospital. He'd also been as far away from Gold as a man handcuffed in the back of a police car could manage.

Gold had only spoken to her once since she arrested him. "I'll be pressing charges against Mr. Ghast," he said.

"What? The guy you almost killed? Why, didn't he bleed fast enough for you?"

"For breaking, entering, and attacking. He's the one who stabbed Mr. Dove."

Dove was a last name? That made explained a lot. It also made sense that Gold hadn't stabbed him. Except that meant Ghast had, which make sense at all.

"Really? Why?"

"You'd have to ask Mr. Ghast."

"And Ghast just lay down and let you cuff him and beat him up after he'd stabbed a seven foot giant?"

"Mr. Dove is somewhat sensitive about his height, Sheriff. Please, don't call him a giant. As for Mr. Ghast's motives, he would be the best one to enlighten you. Just make sure the hospital treats anything on his person as potential evidence."

Emma gritted her teeth but made sure the hospital—and anyone treating Ghast—got the message. Dangerous guy. Don't let him get away. Go through his pockets with gloves on. Tag and bag what you find. Tag and bag his clothes, too. Do _not_ throw anything away or send it to be cleaned. She wasn't going to blow this case, whatever it had turned into, just because the Scottish prime suspect for _most_ of the crimes made her want to murder him.

Since then, all Gold had done was sit quietly looking so stone-cold impassive, you'd think he was the one stabbed to death.

It was creepy. And Emma didn't like not having answers.

She looked in the office fridge and found a leftover sandwich from . . . yesterday? Day before yesterday? It didn't matter. It was pastrami, loaded down with lots of artificial chemicals and preservatives.

 _Not green and not smelly. Except for the mustard. Good enough._

She sat back down at her desk and tried to think how to get Gold to talk.

 _So, pile of corpses, what's up with that?_

 _Any graves in the basement I should know about?_

 _Isabel Lacey, murder victim, what do you know about her?_

Emma tried a different tactic. "Pastrami," she said, taking the sandwich out of the bag. "You want half?" She took a bite out of it. "You know, I still owe you that favor. Nice, fatty pastrami." Or dry and (probably) not spoiled pastrami. Like there was a difference. "Delicious way to clear the books."

Gold looked at her. It was a look that gave Emma a twinge of sympathy for Nott, curled up in a police car with no way to escape from the man in front of her. It was a look that was meant to remind Emma who the top predator in town was. Except, she wasn't sure he was trying to remind her. He just did it.

He spoke in a soft voice that would have been gentle if it didn't scare you to death. "Well, I don't need a reminder that you owe me a favor. And, when the day comes that I make my request, it'll be for more than half a sandwich."

 _Oh, he's good_. Emma fished around for another approach. She'd already transferred the pictures she'd taken of Gold's house with her phone and sent them to the sheriff's computer. The EMTs had stepped in Dove's blood—there wasn't any way they could avoid it—but she'd gotten some pictures in before they got in there.

There was a cello in one corner. Did Gold play? Would he open up and talk if she asked? Or did he just like to keep his antiques where he could see them?

Probably a Stradivarius or whatever a Stradivarius was when it was a cello. And the furniture was probably all Louis the Something-or-Other.

She looked over the footprints. Gold had left tracks in the blood, more than a few of them.

Emma leaned in and looked closer. There were two sets of prints going through Dove's blood into the house, and one set going back. There was a mess to the side of Dove where someone had . . . put something down? Knelt?

The prints were all the same, a man's prints, relatively small.

None of them were Ghast's.

Ghast was already in the house before all the blood was there.

If Gold was telling the truth—No, forget that. If Gold's story _resembled_ the truth, then Dove must have been coming into the house when someone (assume Gold was right, and it was Ghast) stabbed him from behind. Ghast stepped around him and went in. There was no puddle yet for him to walk through. Maybe a bit of blood splatter on his clothes (and it was a good thing she'd already told the hospital to keep everything, clothes included, as evidence from a crime scene).

Then, Gold came in, stepped through the blood and—and what? Came up behind Ghast, who conveniently had his back to an open door this whole time? And wasn't worried about Gold coming home at any moment and finding him? Or just sat back and let the smaller man beat him up and put him in handcuffs that happened to be lying around?

Forget that part for now. Concentrate on the footprints. Gold comes in. He handcuffs Ghast then goes back and bandages up Dove. The EMTs said they got a call from the house. Assume that was Gold.

And . . . something happens, and Gold goes back to Ghast and starts beating him to death.

So, what if Gold was lying? What if Ghast was already handcuffed in the house? Gold and Dove grab him, maybe because Ghast owes him five cents, and Gold's decided to make an example of him. Only, Dove has second thoughts about torture and murder, so Gold stabs him?

Gold wouldn't have left Dove by the door, for one thing. He could have gotten Dove into the house, closed the door, and done it there, no obvious corpses where anyone walking by could see. Besides, why bandage Dove up if he'd decided to kill him?

Why beat a man almost to death after he'd handcuffed him?

Not that people didn't do stuff like that all the time. How many bale jumpers would have gotten away with it if they hadn't taken a swing at someone in a bar? Or gotten away with it until Emma had a chance to bring them in instead of being picked up by the local police? But, those people weren't Gold. The man lived and breathed premeditation.

She looked at the pictures again, looking over the footprints, trying to figure out what it was she wasn't seeing.

Graham had had a reputation in town. People said he could track a bird flying through the trees. Graham had laughed at that but he'd explained some of the basics of tracking to her. There were ways to tell if an animal was running or walking, healthy or wounded. There were probably ways to do the whole Sherlock and tell what kind of cigarettes it smoked and whether it had brother in Pittsburgh. If Graham were here, he'd know all that. Emma didn't.

She looked at the prints one by one. Some were clearer than others. Some of them had a kind of rolling smear. Were those from Gold's bad leg? But, less than half of them had it. Did that mean anything? There were some marks from his cane, and—

Emma stopped. She made the image bigger (and blurrier. Where was that great software that made everything crystal clear on all the crime shows when you needed it?). It wasn't the round mark of Gold's cane. It was curved on out on one side and straight on the other.

A different shoe. The heel of a woman's shoe.

Emma shrank the picture, looking at the furniture again. There was a couch with a book on it. A picture book.

Emma zeroed in on it, squinting as she tried to make out the title and wishing again for magic, crime-show computers. If she was reading it right, it said. . . .

 _The Adventures of Isabel._

There was a gasp from Gold's cell. She looked up and saw his face turning pale as he lurched for the bars and pulled himself up on them, staring in disbelief.

Emma turned to see what he was looking at. There was a woman standing in the doorway of the sheriff's station. She was so pale, Emma was surprised she was standing. Her skin had the sick sheen that came from cold sweat. She was trembling and the death grip she had on the door looked like it was the only thing keeping her up.

Then, the woman's eyes fixed on Gold, and she raced across the room as if it were no man's land in a war zone and she'd die if she didn't get out of it fast enough. When she reached the cell, she slid her arms through the bars and grabbed onto Gold as if he were her one chance of surviving. Gold held onto her as if she would melt away and vanish if he let her go.

"Uh. . . ." Emma said, because Gold slaughtering minions and hospital clerks was lot closer to sanity and reality than what was happening in front of her—what her eyes told _had_ to be happening in front of her even if her brain knew this could only be happening if she had just passed the lunatic event horizon and was hurtling down the rabbit hole with thrusters at full throttle. "Uh. . . ."

The woman turned around and faced Emma. She still looked too sick to stand but she was grim and determined. "Sheriff Swan?" she said. "I'm . . . Mrs. Gold. I saw your visit to our home earlier today. Both visits. And I'm here to demand you release my husband. Right now."

Past the rabbit hole, through the looking glass, and smashing through rainbows, wardrobes, and anything else that got in her way. If she was who Emma thought she was. . . .

"You're. . . . Are you. . . ."

There was a familiar click-clack of military-grade high-heels coming down the hallway and taking no prisoners. A part of Emma grasped onto the proof that the world as she knew had not totally ceased to exist.

"Sheriff Swan," Regina said as she came marching in, Henry in front of her. "I'm letting you have thirty min—" Then, even that piece of normalcy fell away as Regina was shocked into silence.

The pale woman—Mrs. Gold—managed a weak, sickly smile that was still strong enough to have a vindictive edge. "Madam Mayor," she said coolly. "How good to see you again."

Henry gasped, looking as unbelieving as Emma felt. "I—I—" He stared at the woman as if she were a ghost. Which, Emma thought, she almost was.

" _Isabel?_ "

The smile the woman gave Henry was much kinder than the one she'd given his mother. "Hello, Henry, it's good to see you again. How have you been?"


	17. What Happened

**Note:** I finished the last chapter meaning to go into some things focusing on Henry. And they didn't work. And they kept on not working. So, since I already posted the last chapter and don't see how to get out of it, I am skipping ahead a bit on this. I think I can get Henry to work in a brief flashback, but it's going to have to wait till next week. Sorry.

X

Isabel's stomach squirmed as she sat down across from Emma. Talking to Henry had been hard enough. She didn't think she would ever forget how betrayed he'd looked. Knowing it was his mother's fault, not hers, didn't help.

Emma had led her into the office, closing the door. The shades were closed and it was comfortingly small space. Gold could still see her—and, bars or no bars, she had no doubt he would somehow come riding to her rescue if she needed it.

Or he would try.

He had tried to keep her safe both times when the sheriff came into their home today. The end of that had landed him in a cage.

It had light. It was open to the air (a good thing, frightening as she found it). No one was leaving him beaten and half-starved. And she knew he would give all those things up if it meant rescuing her again.

It was in everyone's interest to keep things civilized.

Isabel started with how Keith Nott had broken into her home . . . this morning? Was it only this morning? It seemed like years had gone by since this started.

The sheriff stopped her, asking questions about her agoraphobia. Isabel explained as well as she could. "Have you seen a therapist about it?" she asked.

"The only therapist in town is Dr. Hopper," Isabel said. "I saw him after the attack, but. . . ." _I felt like everything I said was being fed back to the mayor to be used against me._ ". . . _._ We didn't get on."

Emma nodded as if she understood. Did she? _I suppose she can't be playing good cop/bad cop when there's only one of her. Can she?_

"I heard a man breaking in. I hid. I—I haven't left the house in five years. I knew I should have run but. . . ." She shook her head, unable to explain. Fear. It was such a small word. And if she thought about it for too long, it would reach out and eat her up from the inside.

"I understand," the sheriff said.

Did she? Or was she just saying that, to keep Isabel talking?

Did it matter? Was there anything Isabel could do besides keep talking?

 _I could have run this past the best lawyer in town, but he's currently locked up in a cell._ The second best lawyer was the District Attorney. Starting with the sheriff was safer. _At least, she isn't friends with the mayor. That's something._

"He said—he said, 'She's not here.' Then, he said, 'Maybe Gold killed her and buried her in the basement.'" She swallowed. "'Saves me the trouble.'

"I—I couldn't leave the closet. Even after he was gone. I was still there when—when you and Gold came in."

"Gold? You call your husband Gold?"

Isabel smiled a little. "He hates his given name."

"And what is his given name?"

"Not part of your case, I think. You and Gold came in. You know what happened then."

"Tell me anyway."

Isabel did to the best of her ability, hoping she wasn't forgetting anything or misremembering details. How many would it take for the sheriff to start accusing her of lying or making things up?

 _She deserved it. She had it coming._

 _Don't think about it. Just tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may._

Because that had worked so well for her five years ago.

There was one thing that shocked the sheriff early on. Isabel said a bit more about Wee Jock than she'd meant to, and the sheriff gasped. "I almost shot you?"

"You didn't know."

"I almost _shot_ you?"

"You didn't. And you didn't mean to. Believe me, I've been through worse."

"You're only saying that because you've never been shot."

"I've known people who were."

"You what? You're a _nanny!_ "

"Who grew up in Australia. In the Outback. Things happen, especially when there's too much drinking during the shearing. But, I never knew anyone who got killed by a gun. Being wounded sounded bad enough."

"If you grew up around guns, why didn't you have one when people were spending the day breaking into your house?"

The sheriff sounded exasperated. "Is that how you would have handled it?" Isabel said.

"Hey, you've got a right to defend yourself!"

"Is that what you told my husband when you arrested him?"

"That's different."

"Was it? Well, it's simple enough." _Because you don't want to give a woman having a panic attack a gun to shoot at anything that scares her._ Isabel had told that to Gold in no uncertain terms when he'd suggested she get one. Today, it had been a burglar and a killer. But, what if she heard someone coming in, panicked, and found she'd shot Gold?

Of course, telling an officer of the law she was afraid she might shoot innocent people might not be the best way to get her husband released. Isabel stuck to the less complicated reason. "To get a license, I'd have to leave the house. I haven't done it.

"But, what happened to me five years ago—I don't know if you heard about that—"

"I did," Emma said. "The attack by the pharmacy."

"Do you?" She said pharmacy, not The Rabbit Hole. That had to be a good thing, didn't it? "I know I should have talked to you then but . . . I couldn't. I don't know if you can understand that. But, I _couldn't_." Could the sheriff understand that? Could anyone? Fear was a monster that grabbed you by the throat and didn't let go.

"But, you talked to your husband?"

 _Trying to establish motive, Sheriff?_ She wished Gold was there to help her, to warn her against fatal mistakes. More than anything, she hoped she wasn't selling him out. "I told him a man broke in, that he'd sounded like he was looking for me." _That he sounded like he was going to kill me._ _Or was working with someone who would._

"OK, and the second time?"

"Dove came. I—I knew something was wrong. Dove always calls if he's coming. Always. He looked so relieved when he saw me. He must have known something was going to happen. Then, he collapsed. Sepulchrave was right behind him. He stabbed him."

"Who?"

"I'm sorry. I meant Ghast. I think that's what you called him? He looked like someone I'd known. When I was a child. Sepulchrave." She hadn't really thought about that since the attack, hadn't questioned it. "He—Ghast, I mean—he talked as if he knew me. He said I should have died. I was supposed to have died."

"Supposed to have."

"Yes. I tried to fight him." Isabel gestured to her face where he'd hit her. "That's how this happened." She hadn't looked in a mirror, but it felt like there was a bruise there. _Pictures, I should have taken pictures. Preserve the evidence, isn't that the most important thing in a criminal case?_ Well, she'd protected the _most_ important piece of evidence. "He pinned me down—I thought he was going to kill me—He had handcuffs—Then, Gold was there. He hit him with his cane and managed to get the handcuffs on him, instead. Then, he bandaged up Dove. He used Sepulchrave—Ghast's knife to cut up his coat and try to stop the bleeding. I went to get more first aid supplies while he was doing that. But, Sep—Ghast came to. He was trying to get up and—"

 _And he was bigger than both of them. And had nearly killed her. He was insane and might be one of the people who'd locked up Isabel when she was just a child._

At least, she didn't have to explain this part. Isabel pulled the answering machine out of her large, bulky purse. She plugged it in and pushed play.

"—One—Gold—You know what she is. You know why I had to do this."

"Had to, dearie? You didn't _have_ to do anything. Especially _this._ "

"She needs to die! She was supposed to die!"

Isabel closed her eyes. There was no reason to be afraid. Sepulchrave wasn't here. She was safe. Unless the sheriff didn't believe her or was as crazy and Sepulchrave or—

 _No, this will work. It has to work. She has to understand._

 _Unless this backfires and blows up in my face._

There was the sound of Gold's cane striking. "Needs to?" Gold said. The cane struck again. " _Needs_ to?" A third strike.

It sounded worse this way. Maybe she should have thought this through. Maybe she should have talked to Gold first.

"You broke into my home." _Whack._ "You stabbed a man." _Whack._ " _You tried to murder my wife." Whack._ "And you're telling _me_ who needs to die?"

"Stop!"

And there was Emma Swan, showing up to save the day. Or whatever it was she'd done.

If Gold hadn't come when he did, would the sheriff have been in time to stop Sepulchrave? The things he'd said, the handcuffs he'd brought, the nightmares she had (that might not be nightmares) of a child being murdered before she was locked up in his place, they all made her think Sepulchrave would have been busy for a long, long time.

Just as well she didn't have to find out.

Isabel turned off the recording. "I should have spoken to you then, but. . . ." _But, you smelled of the man who attacked me._ "I have flashbacks. Sometimes. Not often. Not too bad since the first year." _For a given value of bad and a given value of often._ "The _smells._ I—after everything that happened, the smells were the same as that night—" She couldn't explain about the smell of myrrh. The words stuck in her throat. _Something about you reminds me of the man who attacked me._

No, Isabel couldn't say that. Let the sheriff assume she meant the smell of Dove's blood, which had been bad enough. Let her assume anything besides what Isabel couldn't bring herself to say. "Then, you arrested Gold. And I had to help."

The sheriff looked as sick as Isabel felt. _Oh, wonderful. I'm contagious._ "I understand," the sheriff said. "But—"

The phone rang. With a grimace of _Why now?_ the sheriff picked it up.

"Sheriff Swan. Can I help you? Uh-huh. . . . Yeah. . . . That's good, but. . . ." Emma's eyes flew to Isabel. "Really? They were? I see, but. . . . Uh-huh. . . . And. . . . You did. . . ? Can you describe it?" There was a longer pause. The sick look got a bit stronger. "And you took care of them? Uh-huh? Good. All right. Yes, I'll be there."

She hung up the phone and looked at Isabel. "That was the hospital. I told them to call me if they found anything interesting."

"I see. Did they?" Things that would help? Or not? _Was Sepulchrave clever enough—or insane enough—to try to make evidence framing Gold? Or her?_

"Yeah. Turns out they didn't have any trouble getting the handcuffs off Ghast. They had a key."

"What? Why?"

"It seems there was a mental asylum built in Storybrooke back in the 19th century. Something about cold, sea air. It was where the hospital is now. There are old display cases packed away with stuff they used back then. Including handcuffs. Whale recognized them."

Isabel shuddered, trying not to think too much about the implications of that.

"But, when they checked Ghast's pockets, he, uh, he had drawings. Notes. On how he meant to kill someone."

Isabel's knuckles whitened. "Someone?"

"The notes didn't say who, but. . . ."

"But, I'm the only person he's tried to kill." Isabel thought that over. "That you know of."

"Yeah."

"Storybrooke's a small town. People would notice if someone was missing." _It's noticing they're alive that seems hard._

"I'll still be checking it."

"And you'll be letting my husband out?"

"That sounds like a good idea."

Isabel nodded. "I've got just one more question, Sheriff. I saw your coat hanging outside. You weren't wearing it the first time you came to the house, but. . . ."

"But, it's Graham's. You recognize it?"

 _Graham. It was Graham's._ "I thought I did. It was newer the last time I saw it, and the smell. . . ."

"Graham's cologne, yeah, I remember it, too." Emma hesitated. "Look, you should know. When Graham died, he was looking into your case. He was still trying to catch the guy who did it."

"Was he?" _It should have been easy enough. All he had to do was ask the man wearing the attacker's coat. And wearing his cologne._ "I suppose that's good to know."


	18. Kind or Cruel

Rumplestiltskin saw young Henry's expression shift from shock to confusion to betrayal. That last was only too familiar to him. For a moment, he might have been looking at his own son.

But, Henry's anger wasn't for Rumplestiltskin or Isabel. He turned on his mother. "You told me she died," he said, voice raw with confusion and loss. " _You told me she died._ "

Rumplestiltskin's arms were still around Isabel. He could feel the tension in her. Henry's pain was her pain. More than anything, he wished they could have a moment's private conversation. How did she want this to play out? To break the last ties binding Henry and Regina? Or, for Henry's sake, to heal that rift before it broke forever?

And what did _he_ want? What would serve _his_ plans?

It would be so easy to destroy Regina right now. A sneering, "Did she tell you Isabel was dead? Wishful thinking, your majesty?" might be all it took. Henry was a smart lad. A few well-aimed hints, and he would know who had wanted Isabel gone forever.

A few differently chosen words, and he could convince Henry Regina was as surprised as he was. After all, Rumplestiltskin was the one who had hidden her away. Blame the monster. It was what everyone else did.

And it would strengthen those fraying threads holding mother and son together, making sure Regina would still pay any price to save her boy when the time came. All he had to do was lie to a child who was wasting away for want of truth.

Isabel may have fought her way here, but this was a battle she hadn't been expecting. She was at as great a loss for words as Regina.

As a child, the one comfort Belle had had was never knowing how her father betrayed her. As a grown woman, he'd seen her question it, wondering what he had and hadn't known. But, as a small girl trapped in the dark, she had still believed in his love for her.

Lies could cover wounds while their poison festered and grew. Truth could cut so deep you died from it. Which should he choose?

"There were reasons for people to think that," Rumplestiltskin said.

Henry looked at him with no trust in his eyes. Then, his gaze slid to Isabel, wrapped in Rumplestiltskin's embrace, uncertain.

"The man who tried to kill Isabel has been taken into custody," Rumplestiltskin said. He wasn't lying. If Henry thought he meant the man who'd attacked her five years before, that might make matters easier all around. What Regina and Emma believed, well, that was another matter. "He's at the hospital, now, as Sheriff Swan can tell you."

Henry's uncertain eyes went from Isabel to his birthmother. "Emma. . . ?"

Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure what Emma knew about Henry's past with Isabel, but she clearly knew a minefield when she was standing in the middle of one. "Isabel was about to give me her statement," she said carefully. A well-chosen answer, reassuring and no promises.

Henry turned back to Rumplestiltskin. "If he's in the hospital, why are you locked up?"

"A good question. Because, I may have had a hand in putting him there."

Isabel spoke up. "The sooner I can talk to the sheriff, the sooner we can get that straightened out. I can talk to you after, Henry. But, I need to do this now."

Regina was looking daggers at all of them. "Henry and I will be going—"

"Nonsense, Madam Mayor," Rumplestiltskin said. "Henry can wait here. With me. And I can answer any questions he may about his old friend's . . . resurrection."

For once, Emma and Regina had identical expressions, ones that said Rumplestiltskin was insane if he thought they were going to agree to that. Rumplestiltskin went on cheerfully. "If he has any questions I can't answer, he can ask when the sheriff is done with hers."

"I don't think—" Emma began.

"You needn't be afraid of me," Rumplestiltskin said. "I'll sit back here, away from the bars, and Mr. Mills can be sure to stay out of arms reach." He smiled at Regina. "I'm sure he knows the danger of being too close to people who would hurt him."

Regina looked ready to spit nails. "I'm not letting you fill Henry with lies—"

"I don't lie, Regina. As you well know."

"You don't tell the truth, either."

"So, let young Mr. Mills make up his own mind. I think he'll find what I have to say more reassuring than anything you might, just now."

He put a slight emphasis on _reassuring._ Regina had no subtlety, but he hoped his old student could take a hint. There was nothing Regina could say right now to fix this. As for Isabel, even if she wanted to soften the facts to shield Henry, her natural honesty was too raw and open to attempt it. That left Rumplestiltskin. He was the only hope Regina had for salvaging this.

Now, if she could just put her own anger aside long enough to recognize the fact. . . .

She understood him, but there was still a long battle between fury and desperation. Regina tried to hedge. "I should stay with him."

Rumplestiltskin knew better than to smirk. If that was her strongest argument, he'd already won. It was just a matter of getting her to acknowledge the fact.

"It will be easier for Henry to ask questions if he has some privacy. I promise, I won't tell him anything you wouldn't want him to hear." But, _how_ he told it—and what conclusions the boy might draw—that was another story, one he hadn't made his mind up about telling.

The sheriff interrupted. "You're assuming I'm allowing this."

"You'll be able to see us from your office," Rumplestiltskin said. "If his mother has no objection, why should you?"

Regina bristled right one schedule. "Yes, Sheriff, if I don't object, why should you? I'll be waiting right outside, Gold." Ah, the warning and the threat, not that it mattered at this point. "You and I will be having a chat when this is done."

"Yes, Madam Mayor, I believe we will."

Rumplestiltskin hid his smile as Regina marched out. Even after all these years, she had no mind for the fine points of a deal. If she did, she would know how very little he'd promised. And, if she had ever understood anything about him, she would know he would give her even less.

Isabel broke loose from his hold to go talk with the sheriff. But, she gave his hand a final squeeze and leaned in to whisper, "Be kind," before she left.

And Rumplestiltskin was left along with Henry.

The boy sat on the far end of the couch, far out of reach if Rumplestiltskin were to suddenly lunge for him. He looked too young for his ten years, lost and confused. Rumplestiltskin remembered how Henry had been after Isabel "died," the raw grief and loss in his face. He'd seen it often enough in the faces of children who had lost their fathers during the Ogre War. The boy started out with the same question they always came too, sooner or later.

"What happened?"

"What do you know about the night Isabel was attacked?" Rumplestiltskin said.

Henry shrugged. "Mom said she—she was doing stuff she shouldn't and got into trouble. That—that's not true, is it?" When Rumplestiltskin hesitated, Henry rushed on. "You said you wouldn't lie to me. You _promised._ "

"I also promised you mother I wouldn't tell you anything she didn't want you to hear." He raised a hand before Henry could protest. "But, the truth—or some form of it—will be all over town soon enough. I think she'd prefer you heard it from me. It's no great secret. Isabel went out to get milk. It was late, and perhaps it was unwise to go out alone after dark. But, Storybrooke's a small town. It's not as if she didn't feel safe here." _And, even if she'd known how dangerous it really is, it's not as if staying inside with Regina would have protected her._ He went on gently, "Sometimes, people need reasons why bad things happen. If they believe a person made a mistake, that there was some choice that could have been avoided, it means they're still safe."

"My mom doesn't think like that."

 _No, she doesn't._ "Well, whatever your mother thought, she was right about one thing. Isabel wasn't in any condition to keep being your nanny. She needed time to rest and get better."

"I could have helped," Henry said. "I could have done something."

Rumplestiltskin pictured five-year-old Henry in a candy-striper's uniform, bringing a lunch tray into the sickroom. But, it was true. Seeing Henry would have helped. Except it wouldn't have.

"She wanted to see you," Rumplestiltskin said. "But, I don't know if she wanted you to see her. She was. . . ." He thought of Isabel as she'd been then, broken bones, bruises showing on every inch of her that wasn't hidden with bandages. He thought about trying to explain that to a five year-old child. The thought of explaining it to a ten year-old was bad enough. ". . . . very badly hurt. You deserved to understand what had happened, deserved to be told more. But, I can't blame your mother for thinking you weren't ready to see it."

"She told me she was dead."

"I was the one who took Isabel away from the hospital," Rumplestiltskin said. "I don't know if you remember the times she took you with her when she visited me in the shop or how I would see her sometimes when she was watching you in the park, but we'd become friends."

Regina had objected, of course. But, Gold—cursed Gold, not Rumplestiltskin—had rolled his eyes at her outrage and said, "Oh, please, Regina, let her have a friend if she wants." She'd gone white with strangled fury, but there were no more objections. His cursed self had been so smug about winning that argument, not realizing how he'd won. He wondered if Regina had started plotting her revenge then or if she had waited till the day Henry called Isabel, "Mom," and all that buried fury boiled over?

Henry, however, was looking doubtful. "Isabel liked you?"

"I found it as surprising as you do. I still do. It may have been because I was one of the few people in town who wasn't scared to talk to her." Him and Sheriff Graham. Isabel had not been lucky in her friends. "So, when I heard what happened, I wanted to keep her safe. The hospital did not strike me as a safe place, so I—"

"Why?" Henry challenged. "Why wasn't it safe?"

"Many reasons. Someone had attacked Isabel. There was no reason to think they wouldn't try again. And Storybrooke only has a small town hospital. I wasn't sure she was getting the best of care." And he hadn't wanted to leave Isabel with people who were more interested in pleasing Regina than in caring for their patient, even if Rumplestiltskin had had no idea what the Evil Queen was truly capable of.

"And my mom? What did she think?"

"Henry, your mother never felt the way you do about Isabel, that's true. She saw her as an employee, nothing more. But, she understood her obligations as an employer." _Because I told her in painstaking detail how she wouldn't be able to get out of them._

"Did she know she was alive?" Henry asked.

"After Isabel came to stay with me, rumors started she had died. I saw no need to correct them. It wasn't as if I'd advertised where she was. If you want to know what your mother thought about those stories, you'll have to ask her."

"Because you won't lie to me. Or tell me something my mom doesn't want me to hear."

 _Be kind,_ Isabel had said.

If he had seen the truth sooner about his father, would his own life have been better? If Baelfire had known his father was too weak to keep the promise he'd made, would Rumplestiltskin have still lost him?

Truth or lies, which was kinder? Rumplestiltskin didn't know, but he knew which one Henry desperately wanted.

"I never discussed the rumors with her, Henry. I can't tell you what she was thinking."

He watched the boy, waiting while his words sank in. He might only be ten, but his birthmother wasn't the only detective in the family. Rumplestiltskin thought the lad who'd been able to see the truth behind Regina's curse when no one else in the town could would be able to put this one together. If Gold never discussed them with Regina, then that meant. . . .

"She never asked you?" Henry said. "Not once?"

"Not once."

Yes, he understood. Rumplestiltskin could see the pain in the boy's eyes. If Regina had believed the rumors, she would have spoken to Gold to learn if they were true. And Henry knew that.

She hadn't. Because, she never believed Isabel was dead.

Henry got up and left silently. There were no loud exclamations when he walked out into the hallway where Regina was waiting, no arguments or angry accusations. Rumplestiltskin could imagine him walking away, quiet and subdued.

He thought of Bae. Perhaps, he should have lied to Henry. He knew what his mother was but he still loved her, painful as it was for him. Even now, Rumplestiltskin knew, even after learning what he must think was the worst thing Regina had ever done, he still loved her.

He remembered a small boy with a bean in his hand, desperately trying to win his father's love. If he had known the truth, could the lies have ever hurt him? Or would he have tried that much harder to make them true?

Rumplestiltskin turned it over and over in his mind, looking for an answer. But, when the sheriff came to let him out, he still didn't know if he had been kind or cruel.


	19. One Question

In books, people who had reached their emotional limit fainted or fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. At the very least, they fell apart and said or did things they never would have otherwise. Books didn't always tell the truth, as Isabel well knew, but it didn't keep part of her from feeling deeply annoyed. She thought she had earned exhausted slumber or reaching a point where she no longer cared how she felt.

Instead, her insides felt like a boiling pot, everything frothing over instead of settling down. She should be too exhausted to feel anything. She shouldn't _care_ what she felt.

But, she did. As she sat at the edge of the stairs, too shaky to help her husband as he cleaned the blood from their floor, the glass of whisky he'd poured her and that she hadn't been able to take more than a small sip of clutched firmly in her hands to keep it steady, everything that had happened—and everything it meant—kept pouring through her mind.

"You're very good at that," she said. He was very good at many things she hadn't expected. Cleaning blood. Bandaging friends. Knowing Dove was still alive from the way his blood spilled out on the floor. "Accidentally" hitting his cell phone so it left a message on the land line's answering machine, convincing the sheriff he was innocent. Or innocent enough.

"I've had some experience, working with fragile antiques. Broken glass. Other things. I know the basics." He searched her face. "How are you holding up?"

 _Other things. What other things?_

"I don't know," she admitted. _Nothing and no one is who I thought they were._ "Do you know what was the worst thing about today? At the sheriff's office, I saw Graham's jacket. I smelled it. He was the man who attacked me."

"I see." Gold put the rag he'd been scrubbing the floor with in the bucket. He came over and sat down next to her, though he didn't put his arms around her. He'd held her the whole way back from the sheriff's office, letting her bury his face in his coat and pretend as hard as she could she was already safe home. Now, he waited for her. She saw compassion and concern in his eyes. But, no surprise.

"You knew," she whispered. Was anything what she thought it was? Graham? Gold? Herself?

But, he was shaking his head. "I suspected. After he died. There were things. . . . But, I didn't know for certain, not till today."

"Today? What—" No, today was too big a place to start. _Especially_ today. And, the way things were churning inside her, if she didn't get it clear now, she might never understand. "Start at the beginning. What do you mean, you were suspicious?"

"At the very beginning? You know how he never did right by you when he was looking into your case. At the time, I thought that was because he was Regina's man. But, later. . . . There were two times I spoke with him before he died. The first was just after Emma came to town. He said he was reopening your case."

She remembered the sheriff saying that. "Why? If he did it, why reopen the case? And why tell you?"

"At the time, I put it down to Miss Swan's beneficent influence, getting him to do what he should have done five years ago. However, he also told me that the evidence in the case—the rape kit, his files, pictures from the scene, everything—had also gone missing. He didn't know how."

How convenient. "Could anyone besides him have gotten rid of it?"

"A little tricky to know where _all_ of it was stored, but Storybrooke doesn't have the world's best security."

"That cell seemed secure enough."

"I've been in better."

That was a joke. It had to be a joke, didn't it?

Gold went on, "After he told me the evidence was missing, he said, if I had anything relating to the case, anything at all, I should keep it safe."

Isabel tried to make sense of that. "Was he trying to get it from you?"

"No, he made a big point of not asking me what I had or what I had done with it. He told me he didn't want to know. Just that, if I did have anything, to keep it safe."

"Do you have anything?"

Gold looked smug. "I was acting as your lawyer. I have copies of everything the police had. Multiple copies. I doubt even Regina could find them all."

The mayor. Isabel hadn't thought that far. Graham was the mayor's creature. Or he had been. "You think she would do this? Would _tell_ someone to do _this?_ "

"Do you have another explanation? She sent you out that night. A man who worked for her was waiting for you. Afterwards, she was ready to pounce, interfering with the investigation, telling your doctors what to do and what to think."

"But—but _why?_ She barely knew I existed. I was less a person to her than—than her _toaster._ She's never cared for anyone except Henry. She could have fired me if she didn't want me around. To do this, she'd have to be a—a—"

"A cold-hearted witch? Well, why not?"

Isabel remembered the mayor talking to the doctors and nurses, telling them this was all Isabel's fault. She remembered a thousand slights and petty cruelties done for no other reason except Mayor Mills could do whatever she pleased.

"But, why that day? I'd worked for her five years. Why do it then?"

Gold knew the answer to that, too, and he knew it would hurt her. She could already see the pain in his eyes. "I don't know if you remember this. When I recorded your statement about that day, I had you go over everything you could remember, no matter how trivial, in case it gave us a lead. You told me about when you went to get Henry after school. You said he called you, 'Mom.'"

Isabel smiled. "I remember. He was so sweet. . . ." She stopped. The whiskey began to slip from her grip. Gold reached out to catch, but she got it first. "You think—She did this because her son called me mom?"

"Regina has never tolerated rivals well."

"You didn't tell me."

"It was suspicion. All the evidence I had against her was my own prejudice." He considered that statement. "And the timing," he amended.

Isabel looked at him sourly. "You think like a lawyer, sometimes. You know that?"

"Guilty as charged. But, you asked why I suspected Graham. The second time I spoke to him, was the day before he died. He was confused, disoriented."

"His heart problem?" It hurt. It shouldn't hurt. Not after what Graham had done. But, it did, knowing he'd been sick and no one, not even Gold, had recognized it. She wondered if it would have made a difference if she'd seen him. Would she have seen something was wrong? Would he still be alive if she had? Then, she felt angry for even thinking that, for caring.

"It may have been his heart. But, he didn't talk about his health. He talked about dreams he'd been having."

"Dreams?"

Gold nodded. "Dreams of hurting people. When I asked him who, he couldn't look me in the eye. But, he wanted to know if I thought dreams were ever real."

Real. If dreams were real. "What did you tell him?"

"That some say dreams are memories of other lives."

"Did that help?"

"He looked horrified. And guilty.

"Then, after he died and I cleaned out his apartment, I found a bottle of cologne. Expensive stuff, it was probably a gift from Regina. And it was made with myrrh."

"He wore it enough the smell sunk into his jacket. You must have smelled it before."

"I had, but not everyone knows what myrrh smells like. I didn't know that's what it was till I saw the bottle. Today, I got the final proof."

"What happened today?"

"The sheriff made the mistake of locking me up in her car for a few minutes of unsupervised conversation with Mr. Nott." He flashed a cruel, predatory smile. "For some reason, the man was terrified of me. Perhaps it had something to do with the bodies the EMTs where carrying out of the house. Perhaps it had something to do with all the blood I'd gotten on my suit. Despite the handcuffs, he seemed to have no problem believing I could kill him then and there."

"I can't imagine why."

"Indeed. As it was, Mr. Nott was amazingly forthcoming. Graham contacted him the night you were attacked. Mr. Nott had been having some of his usual troubles with the law. The sheriff told him that he was sure he could overlook his latest round of misdemeanors in return for a small favor."

"A small favor." Raping her. Nearly killing her. A small favor.

"That's what he called it. He was to go to Clark's store and wait for you while talking on the phone. When you came in, Nott was supposed to say he'd found the thing he was looking for. When you left, he was supposed to say he couldn't find what he was looking for. It was that simple."

That simple. Destroying her life. Leaving her for dead. It was that simple.

"But, the important thing isn't what he did, it's the timing. The sheriff set this up hours before you went out that night."

"Hours. . . ?"

Gold nodded, seeing she understood. "Someone else had to be working with Graham, someone who knew you would be leaving the house that night and when."

"Mayor Mills. Because of Henry."

"Exactly."

"But, I still don't understand. Graham's dreams, warning you about the missing evidence. What was that about?"

"My theory—and it's only a theory—is that Graham didn't remember what he'd done. Or didn't till just before he died."

"Wait, you don't mean split personalities?" Isabel had read a great deal about mental illness in the past five years. Most of it was focused around anxiety and phobias, but she knew about other conditions. "That almost never happens. Even when it does, it's not like the movies make it out to be."

"Most things aren't. But, yes, I think Graham entered into some kind of dissociative state. He was suggestible while it lasted in a way Regina could use. He didn't remember what he'd done after, not until he started investigating a crime where he was the criminal."

Isabel didn't know much about dissociative states but she was pretty sure that trying to manipulate someone in one would be like juggling gasoline and torches, hoping for the best. "Maybe he was just good at hiding what he was. Maybe he talked about dreams because he was sick and babbling."

"Maybe. He could have been a monster all along. Even if he wasn't completely sane, if he _chose_ to hurt you, part of him still responsible for that choice."

If. And, if he hadn't been responsible, if he hadn't been able to refuse Regina's request, then what?

A part of her wanted to believe it, that the Graham she knew had been real in some way, that one of his last acts was trying to make right what he'd done.

Even if it was something he could never make right. No one could.

"Do you think things are OK with you and the sheriff? Sepulchrave was self-defense, but what happened with Nott?"

Gold hesitated. "It, ah, seems the sheriff found Mr. Nott tied up in a cabin outside of town. We had time for a little chat about that, too. He may have been a bit upset when the she first found him and not entirely coherent. When he speaks to the sheriff later, he means to explain how Sepulchrave was the one who tied him up and left him there.

"When I found him there, he told me Sepulchrave was after you. Naturally, I rushed back as fast as I could. Unfortunately, I didn't even think of untying Mr. Nott. He was understandably upset, which would account for anything he said to the sheriff earlier that sounded as if he were blaming me for his predicament."

"Did he," she said flatly. "And what did you promise him in return for his improved memory?"

"I may have suggested I would ask the judge for leniency. I might even drop charges. If you're agreeable."

"Agreeable."

"It's your choice, Belle."

"If I press charges against Nott, what happens to you?"

"Ah. I suppose Mr. Nott will press kidnapping charges. I dare say I can get out of it easily enough. Mr. Nott isn't what is referred to as a reliable witness."

"And Dove?"

"He would face charges as well. But, if I can get off, there's no reason he shouldn't."

"If." She was beginning to hate that word.

"Belle, this is _your_ choice. I believe Nott when he said he was duped by Graham. His story is that Regina had asked him to keep an eye on you, that she thought you were up to something and she wanted Graham to catch you. But, Sepulchrave didn't dupe him. He knew what he was doing when he broke into our home. He may not have known Sepulchrave meant to kill you—even Nott isn't stupid enough for that—but he knew enough. You don't have to let him go. And you don't have to answer right now. Think about it. We'll both still be here in the morning."

He meant it. If she wanted Nott charged, Gold would cheerfully see to it they threw the book at him. If that meant going to trial himself, so be it.

And Dove. Dove who'd come charging to her rescue and nearly been murdered for it. He'd be charged, too.

"You know I can't let you do that. Graham's dead. That's enough."

He gave her one of those searching looks, the ones that made her feel he could look into her very soul—and he didn't believe that was enough. "Belle. . . ."

"That's the third time you've called me Belle," she said. "No one's called me that in years. Not since my dragon man." It was her turn to search his face, to look for the secrets hidden behind his eyes. "Are you him ?" She asked. "Are you Rum?" Something distant, almost forgotten, rose up in her mind. "Are you Rumplestiltskin?


	20. Choices

_A man walked out of the woods into a small clearing where an old, weather beaten cottage stood. The man walked slowly and, when he reached the log the owner of the cottage used for chopping wood, he sat down on it, putting a large, wicker basket down by his feet. The basket was a sort sometimes used in those parts for carrying babies, a little canopy, like a wicker hood, covering one part, soft cloth stretching from the canopy to cover the rest._

 _The man moved the cloth to check on the small form sleeping within, but the basket didn't hold a baby. A large cat, tucked beneath a baby blanket, a little doll held safe in its paws, slept within. As the man looked down at the cat, a small, white dog came trotting out of the woods, a triumphant gleam in his eye._

" _Beat off the squirrels, did you?" the man asked. The dog, immune to sarcasm, yipped happily and began to explore the clearing. The man found a stick lying nearby and picked it up in his clawed hand and gave it a weary throw. The dog happily ran after it and came back, tail wagging madly, a moment later. The man gave him a pat on the head and scratched him behind the ears. Despite his claws, the dog was overjoyed._

Rumplestiltskin didn't need magic to relive that day. After all these years, each moment was as clear and sharp as cut glass. He had gone to the cottage, a drop of magic making sure Belle slept while Wee Jock (first of that name) ran madly about the clearing.

First had come Robin Hood, a mortal man with no magic worth speaking of breaking into the Dark Castle and not caring what targets his arrows hit. Then, the Yellow Fairy had come forward, desperate for the "good deed" of destroying a small child. Last of all, Ghaston de Chevalier, Belle's cousin and would-be murderer, a man with the strength of a kingdom, however beleaguered, behind him and a new, sacrificial lamb already chosen for the blade.

Rumplestiltskin had searched through future after future, shifting possibilities like cards in a deck, but he saw only one end, merciless, inescapable. Despite all he did, despite all his power, a moment would come. He would be careless for the space of a breath, he would be distracted for a single heartbeat—and Belle would be lost.

Unless.

There was no safety for Belle in this world—in _this_ world.

But, where he meant to send her, Rumplestiltskin himself couldn't follow.

 _A man walked into the clearing. Like the first, he carried a basket, though his was full of herbs, berries, and a few other odds and ends gathered from the forest. He stopped when he saw the other man waiting for him._

" _Dark One," he said. It sounded like declaration of war._

" _Apprentice," the other man said, his voice soft and tired._

" _Begone. We have nothing to say to each other."_

" _I need your help."_

No snide comeback, no jokes or threats. For once in so many centuries, he had nothing to offer but the empty truth.

 _I need your help._

The Blue Fairy would have been easier to deal with. Threaten enough death and destruction, and she'd be willing enough to meet his demands.

Of course, she'd keep the deal for just as long as she had to and not one second more. He wondered how many heroes and fools she'd send marching to his door, how many he'd have to kill.

Not that it mattered. Taking the fairies out of the game wouldn't be enough. They might be willing to back some of the players in this game, but Rumplestiltskin knew firsthand what a desperate, mortal soul could do when all magical help abandoned him.

" _Why should I help you?" the Apprentice demanded as soon as he got over gaping like a fish at Rumplestiltskin's request. "I have never aided the Dark One."_

" _It's not for myself I'm asking," Rumplestiltskin said. He pushed the blanket aside and lifted Belle out of the basket. With a whispered word, he turned her from a cat back to a little girl, still sleeping in his arms. "Do you know who this is?"_

 _He waited a moment, but the Apprentice didn't answer. "This is Princess Belle of Omelas. If she falls into her people's hands, they'll kill her. They'll torture and mutilate her and then they'll kill her. When they're done, they'll put another child in her place, just as they've done for centuries. I've searched the future. You're the only one who can keep her safe—who can keep all of them safe."_

The bargaining didn't matter. There was a price to be paid because there was always a price to be paid, but it didn't matter.

He wanted to draw his dagger and make the Apprentice sign in blood. He wanted to bind him, heart and soul, to see Belle safe and well. Especially well.

But, that was beyond his power. He either trusted the man or he didn't.

It was not in him to trust anyone, not for himself and not for Belle. But, he had seen the future. This was the only road left to him.

" _I will come for her in a week," the Apprentice said. "When the moon is full."_

A week. Too long and too little. He had come prepared to let her go, to never see her again—if the Apprentice had come to terms at all (he had seen that future as well, where the Apprentice, despite all the pleas and arguments Rumplestiltskin could make, sent him away empty-handed).

It meant he had time to explain to Belle what he was doing and why—or explain as best he could.

" _There's danger coming, Little One. But, this man will protect you. He will take you to a land where your enemies can't follow."_

She had wept and cried. His heart had broken for her. Did she remember her father sending her away? Had Maurice promised her safety, too, when he sent her off with her jailers?

 _I promise, Little One, I_ promise _to keep you safe. This is the only way I can protect you. The only way. Remember me. Or forget. But, let this promise be kept to you._

The tears were gone when the Apprentice came. She was pale and trembling. Wee Jock, sensing her fear, whined and snuggled against her.

" _You will be safe,"_ he whispered to her as he hugged her close one last time, before she was taken away. Wee Jock trotted along behind them.

The Apprentice came to him afterwards. "It's done."

He said other things, claimed he had found a family for her. They were prosperous by the standards of their world. They were also patient and kind. They would be good to her. Rumplestiltskin had nodded, telling himself he would be glad of this later even if he couldn't be now.

"You know, you might have kept her," the Apprentice said.

Rumplestiltskin glared at him. "I told you what I saw."

"Yes. A moment would come. You would leave her alone. You would be careless. For a breath. For a heartbeat. But, it would be enough. But, you know there was another way."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "Really?" he mocked. "And you didn't think to mention it till now?"

"Why tell you what you already knew. I know what you're planning, Rumplestiltskin. Or I know enough of it. You're still bent on your mad schemes to cross worlds, to find your son. But, if you'd walked away from them, if you'd given up on your meddling with Regina, if you'd taken the child far away, do you really mean to tell me you couldn't keep her safe?"

"To spend her life fleeing from one world to another with no company but a mad demon, always looking over our shoulder for whoever might be behind us. A fine life for a child. Not that you aren't right. I have my plans in place. I'm not setting them topsy-turvy because a little tot cries at me."

"And that is why you'll always be alone," the Apprentice said, vanishing in a puff of smoke.

He probably knew Rumplestiltskin well enough to know that was the only way he could be sure to get the last word. He needn't have bothered. The Apprentice had been right, after all. He had made a choice. The Blue Fairy's power ran thin outside this world. Rumplestiltskin knew roads even the most valiant of mortal heroes would have unable to follow.

And the price of taking them would have been his son. All his hopes, all his plans for finding Bae again would have been nothing more than cold ashes in the wind.

He could not save one child without abandoning the other.

But, he could keep them both safe. Or so he hoped. Bae would be found, and Belle would be protected. All would be well.

He told himself that over and over again as walked through the empty halls of his castle, twisting the gold ring on his hand, its fiery opal the same shade as a pair of ice blue eyes.


	21. Confessions

"Yes, I'm your dragon man."

"And Rumplestiltskin? That can't be your name. Can it?"

"Call it a _nom de guerre._ It was the name I was known by in certain circles in those days."

"Why didn't you tell me?" the words came out weak and desperate. _Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I know about Graham? What other, important secrets don't I know?_

"I didn't know." He gave her a pleading look. "Not when I met you. I had no idea I'd ever seen you before."

She'd considered that. She'd been twenty-three, after all, when she came to Storybrooke. Even her name had changed. "But, when you knew?"

"I didn't. Not till Miss Swan came to town. Henry may be right about her, about her power to change things. She made a stray comment, and I remembered. It all fit together. I knew who you were. And who you'd been to me."

"Not till then? We've known each other ten years—we've been _married_ for five years—and you didn't know till then?"

"When I . . . sent you away," he said, his voice sounding raw and raspy, like a wound. "I had a choice to make. You said you wondered if the man who helped you, if I had been involved in something criminal." He shrugged. "I managed to stay on the right side of the law. More or less. Not that it mattered. I could name quite a few officials who wanted to nail my hide to the wall on principle. But, I didn't really care that a lot of the people I worked with weren't nearly that choosy. I was a . . . well, let's call me a procurer of goods. If you wanted something that was impossible to get, I got it."

Isabel frowned. "You mean drugs?"

He snorted in disgust. "Anyone can get those. I specialized in _hard_ things."

"Me? Was I a hard thing?"

That hit home. The bravado went out of him. "In a way," he admitted. "I was contacted by a man." Gold got a look she recognized. She thought of it as one of his lawyer faces, the one where he was sorting through a complicated case for the bare essentials. "He told me he'd made a mistake," Gold said. "A terrible mistake. There were people he'd given his daughter. He wanted me to get her out."

"Given."

"Yes."

It was too much. First, Graham, and now this. _I want to boil over._ "He knew what they were doing to me?"

Gold hesitated. "Enough," he said at last. "We didn't talk for long, you understand. But, he knew enough. At the time, he thought he had no choice. When I met him, he was dying, and it made him see rethink that. But, he wanted me to get you out, Belle. No matter what else you think about him, that was true. He wanted you out, no matter the cost. So, I got you out."

The world was shifting under her feet. She felt like she was falling into a black pit. "Because he paid you?"

"Because, I wouldn't leave a child in a place like that," he snapped angrily. "I'm a monster, Belle. I've never lied about that. But, give me some credit. There are a few lines even _I_ won't cross."

Isabel remembered being given a bath, the first time in what felt like years. She remembered warm water and ointment that took away the pain and closed up the wounds in her skin. He'd given her clean clothes and a bed to sleep in instead of a dark corner filled with her own filth. In the end, she'd felt cared for—she felt _safe._ Until it ended.

"But, you left me. You sent me away."

The anger died away. "I'm a monster, Belle. It wasn't right for a child to be around me." He hesitated again. "And, I had a choice to make." The words came reluctantly, like heavy stones mined from some deep corner of his soul. Belle remembered something she'd heard or read once, long ago: _Like a blessing from a black magician._

"I had a son" Gold said. Belle blinked, trying to make sense of what he'd just said and understand how it fit what they were talking about. Gold went on, oblivious to her confusion. "It was a long time ago. And I lost him. I searched for him for years. I worked for people who wouldn't know what a conscience was if you gave it to them giftwrapped but who I thought could lead me to him." He gave her a small, broken smile. "I found you instead.

"Things were coming to a head. So long as I was part of that world, you were still in danger. I could walk away and keep you safe, or I could continue my search. And I couldn't give up my search. Not then. Not even for you.

"I sent you away. I did everything I could to make sure you would be safe and cared for. But, I still sent you away."

"So, you could find your son." A son. Her husband had had a son. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, all of them starting with, _Why didn't you tell me?_

But, she didn't. She had a terrible feeling she already knew the answer. "Did you find him?"

The broken smile fell away entirely. "Look around you, Belle. Do you see a son here?" He sighed. "I knew I was playing a dangerous game with dangerous people. I had a code of sorts—I'm not claiming much, when I say that. It wasn't much of a code. But, many of the people I did business didn't even have that. They decided to take care of me in their own way." He shrugged. "I lived through it. But, my memories of what happened during that time and in the months leading up to it were less than perfect for a long time."

And was that why he found it easier to believe something was wrong with Graham's mind? What had they done to him?

"You didn't have a limp when I knew you."

"Oh, that?" He seemed surprised she would mention it. "It was an old injury, before I met you. But, events around that time, er, brought it back."

"They broke your leg?" She _was_ boiling over. And they, whoever "they" were, seemed like perfect targets.

"I broke it. More or less."

" _More or less?_ " Isabel had seen his leg. She'd felt the sharp edges of misset bones through his skin. "There's nothing 'more or less' about it!"

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago. And it was my choice. I knew what I was getting into." As almost an afterthought, he said, "If it makes you feel better, things didn't turn out much better for the people responsible. There was a shift in local power about then. Let's just say the outcome wasn't in their favor."

At the moment, despite wanting to crush them to powder, that wasn't what mattered to her. "And what about you? How did you come out of it?"

"Alive. And ready for a change of scenery. You'll notice the climate here has been much kinder to my skin."

She touched his hand. "I remember scales. And claws."

"Oh. That. The skin was a combination of things. Think of it as very bad eczema. A condition that the local atmosphere didn't help. There were things I could have done about it, but I didn't bother. It also scared people to death. Not getting a manicure didn't hurt, either.

"After I left, I finally got it taken care of. It's cleared up and, unless I do something very stupid, it's not coming back."

 _I'm all right. I'm fine. It won't be a problem._ Unless he did something stupid—correction, something _very_ stupid.

Of course, that would be all he had to say. Isabel loved him, but there were times she dearly wanted to hit him. Whatever they'd done to him, he'd nearly forgotten about her in the wake of it. Because of injuries. Or because he had more important things to think about.

 _Or because that time meant more to me than it did to him._

Isabel remembered being rocked back to sleep when she woke from nightmares. She remembered him giving her her dog, the first Wee Jock, helping her learn to walk again, then smiling as she ran up and down hallways, laughing and shouting. No, he had cared. He always cared.

"Why didn't you tell me once you knew?"

"Tell you what? That I was sleeping someone I'd known since she was a child? That I said I'd protect you and wound up using you instead? I should have. But, I'm a coward, Belle. I couldn't."

He'd been strange the past few weeks, kind as always but strangely distant. As he said, it started when Miss Swan came to town. Because, she said something and he remembered. Because, he felt guilty when he finally realized who she was.

 _I married the stupidest man on the planet._

She shook her head. "You're not my father and I've never thought of you as one. Saving me as a child doesn't make you a bad man."

"Belle—"

"I'm thirty-three years old. I'm not a little girl anymore, and I wasn't one when we got married. You could try to remember that."

"It's not a good enough reason."

How old could he have been when she first met him? Maybe eighteen? A kid on his own against the world. A terrifyingly smart kid, but still a kid. No family besides his son, no friends who wouldn't sell him out and leave him with a shattered leg when his usefulness ran out. They'd both been little more than children.

"No, it's not. What's 'good enough' is that I love you, I want to be married to you, and I made up my own mind to do that. Do _not_ argue with me," she said as he started to open his mouth. "I've had a terrible day, in case you haven't noticed, and I am _not_ in the mood."

"Yes, dear."

Isabel couldn't help it. She started to giggle. Then, she laughed. She laughed till she could barely breathe. Then, the laughter turned to sobs. Too much. It was all too much.

She didn't know how long she cried. Gold held her tight. Wee Jock, who had been hiding since poor Dove collapsed at her feet, finally crept out and curled up beside her. When the sobs finally subsided, he was still holding her as if he would drown if he let her go.

 _As if we both would._

"Don't leave me," Isabel whispered. "No matter what you think, no matter what you remember, please, don't leave me."

"I won't," he whispered. "Not unless you send me away. I promise I won't."

From the way he said it, she knew he half-expected she would someday, as if he didn't notice she was holding onto him as tightly as he was holding onto her. Isabel sighed.

 _I really did marry the stupidest man on the planet._

She sighed again. _I'm glad one of us is smart enough not to let go._


	22. Moments Elsewhere

It was a beautiful, winter day, they kind they rarely had in Maine. Gray clouds seemed to consider the state their winter roosting spot and were in competition how many more of them could crowd into the sky this year compared to last year. But, today, the sky was cobalt blue, and the only clouds were white, fluffy things running around the sapphire fields above like so many happy dogs.

Regina, Gold couldn't help noticing, was not happy. In a land where everything had bowed to her whims for nearly thirty years, the lack of thunder and lightning to reflect her mood must be yet more evidence that the world was no longer made solely for her. She was glowering as she came into the shop.

"Well, Gold? What do you want?"

Courteous as ever. "I rather thought it was about what you wanted, _dearie_ ," Gold said and had the satisfaction of seeing Regina start at his word choice. "The other day, at the sheriff's office, you seemed to be going to great lengths to have a little chat with me."

"For all the good it did me." She snarled, but Gold saw the hope in her eyes. She understood what he was really saying. Despite the recent unpleasantness, he was still willing to work with her. No doubt Madam Mayor was already calculating her next move, as if she truly understood the game they were playing.

"It was a rather exciting day, wasn't it? How is young Henry dealing with it?"

"Not well," Regina said. Grudgingly, she added, "Better than I expected. I suppose I owe you for that."

Ah, yes, she was remembering the harm he _hadn't_ done, given the chance. "It was a small thing," Gold said. "After all, there's no reason he should pay just because his mother made a slight miscalculation."

"Miscalculation?" Regina tried to look confused. _Miscalculation? Are you suggesting I've done something? Moi?_

"Please, _dearie_ , don't play the innocent. The color doesn't suit you. Ghast thought he was working for you when he came after Isabel. The only reason we're having this conversation is because you didn't know what Ghast intended."

Regina had already opened her mouth, ready to let loose with a stream of denials or snide, not-quite admissions. She'd been expecting accusations and anger. She wasn't expecting forgiveness (which this wasn't, but Gold saw no reason to tell her that). Her mouth clicked shut as she reconsidered her next move. When she finally spoke, it was slowly and cautiously. "What do you mean?"

"Nott thought he was brought in on a kidnapping. I'm willing to assume that's what you thought Ghast was doing, getting you a playing piece." He said it casually, as if breaking into his home and terrorizing _his wife_ was just another move in little the games he and Regina were always playing against each other. Which, he was sure, was all Regina had ever thought it was.

Still, she didn't lunge for the olive branch he seemed to be offering her. She at least knew him better than that. "And why would you assume that?"

He continued calmly, hiding his anger. "Two reasons. The first is I would assume even _you_ aren't foolish enough to kill my wife and think I would let it stand." And he would assume it. If she hadn't done such a thorough job of proving how foolish she really was. "As for the second, there are some things even you wouldn't do, Madam Mayor. Sacrificing Henry is one of them."

"Sacri—what do you mean?"

If he'd had any doubts that Regina hadn't understood Ghast's plan—that she'd thrown him into this game without a clue how deadly the man really was—the shocked look on her face would have convinced him.

"The man smuggled a letter out to Isabel," he told her. Best not to let the sheriff know that, of course. No reason she should learn some places in town weren't _quite_ as secure as she thought they were, just in case Gold ever found himself on the wrong side of a cell door again. "I think he had some idea he was apologizing. He was very forthcoming, told her everything. Except who had put him up to it."

Regina, sensibly, hedged. "He's insane. Why would he need someone to put him up to it?"

"Oh, lots of reasons. He claimed to have recently remembered things about his life before Storybrooke."He didn't say, _And there's only one person in this town who could make him remember, isn't there?_ No reason to let Regina know he remembered. Yet. Not till he had what he wanted. Almost but not quite admitting it drove her closer and closer to the edge. "He said that's why he realized Isabel needed to die. It certainly suggests some trigger setting him off, don't you think? Or someone?

"But, more importantly, there's this." He pulled out a wooden box from the storage shelves beneath the cases. A gold colored chain connected it to the shelf below. He took a small, matching key and unlocked it. Inside was an old-fashioned, silver key. The knob at the end was a skull within a circle.

"This is how Nott got into my home," Gold said. "This was how Ghast meant to get in if the door hadn't been conveniently left open." By the body of Gold's minion. Another point he held against Regina that she didn't understand. Her servants had always been disposable and interchangeable. He doubted she remembered the names of any of them besides Sydney and Graham.

 _No one messes with what's mine,_ he silently snarled at her _._ "I'm quite sure it was given to him. And I'm quite sure I know by whom.

Regina started to defend herself, but he cut her off. "Oh, don't look at me like that, dearie. I said I already said I know you couldn't be part of Mr. Ghast's little plan, not all of it. He made that quite clear.

"In his letter, he wanted to convince Isabel he wasn't a mad murderer. He failed, by the way. Very badly. But, he still told her all about why he'd done it, why he thought she should die.

"He believed there was a curse that protected the land he came from. It lasted so long as there was one innocent child for it to be anchored in, a child who would have to be tortured and abused for the rest of her—or his—life.

"For reasons perhaps only Mr. Ghast could explain, he believed Isabel was this child, but she had somehow escaped. He believed, if he could kill her, he could anchor the spell in a new child. To protect this new land, that child would have to be the child of this land's ruler. By 'land,' he meant Storybrooke. By 'ruler,' he meant you. By 'child,' well, I'm sure you can figure the rest of this out."

"Henry." And, now, she did look horrified. In anyone else—anyone who hadn't been willing to kill Isabel—that might have moved him, a parent's fear for her child. He ignored it and went on relentlessly.

"Yes. He meant to use Henry. He would have locked him up in the dark, beaten him, starved him, kept him in filth and fear for the rest of his life. You're many things, Madam Mayor, but I think even you would stop short of doing that to your son."

He'd told her terrible things, things Regina didn't want to hear. And Regina always had the same reaction to anything she didn't want to know: Cut the conversation short. "Why did you ask me here, Gold? To gloat?"

"Gloat? Why ever would I do that? If you're innocent in Mr. Ghast's little venture, then there's no reason you and I can't work together the way we used to. I suggest we put this ugliness behind us with a show of good faith."

And, now, finally, she got it. _Peace offering_ , that's what he was saying. _There's no reason we can't go on as we always have._ He saw the calculation in her eyes. "And what would that be?"

Gold smiled, cruel and predatory. "A deal. What else? When two people want something the other has, a deal can always be struck."

"Really? And what do you want?"

"One thing. A small thing. My wife's safety. You will not harm her. You will not arrange for anyone else to harm her. You will not harass her, spread gossip about her, lie about her, or trouble her in any way. Do you understand the rules?"

"And, in return?"

"In return, I will answer one question. The one you have been going to great lengths to ask me. Well? Do we have a deal?"

"Are you asking or dictating?"

"Would you prefer I said, 'please'? Do you accept or not?"

Regina had not been the cleverest of his apprentices. Her first reaction was always to blast her way through a problem rather than find a more peaceful—and subtle—solution. But, when finally forced to think, she wasn't half-bad at it. He waited patiently while she eyed him like a poisonous snake she was figuring out how to approach without getting bitten.

"Deal," Regina said. "Just keep the little hussy out of my way."

He didn't dignify that with an answer. Or an agreement. As usual, Regina didn't notice. "Your question?"

Regina leaned in close. " _What is your name?_ "

If she had asked this in the jail, he would have strung the moment out, pretending ignorance. He would have also made sure Regina knew who still held the power in this town, bars or no bars. But, if Regina thought about it, even she ought to see he had every reason to crush her into oblivion for what she'd tried to do to Belle. If he wanted to see the curse broken any time soon, he needed her to think they were still allies, still friends.

He smiled again. It wasn't one of Mr. Gold's smiles, no matter how cruel. It was the smile of a mad demon-imp, one who had strode through battlefields giggling as he destroyed his enemies. He leaned in, close enough to rip out her throat with her teeth if the whim took him. " _Rumplestiltskin,_ " he hissed.

Regina moved back, revulsion and fear in her eyes. Oh, she'd believed. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have asked the question. But, she hadn't _believed_ , not till now. She started to say something, no doubt intending to put Rumplestiltskin in his place. He might be the author of her curse, but she was still the one who ruled it. She would do her best to remind him that he was still just one more, petty subject in this little kingdom of hers.

Before she had a chance, the curtain from the back room was pushed aside and Isabel walked into the room. "Gold, where did you put the tea? I can't—Oh, hello, Regina."

Since Ghast's attack, Isabel had been coming to work with him. It still wasn't easy for her. She sat in the car, eyes closed, reciting multiplication tables or bits of poetry till they got here. He wasn't sure if her coming was a good thing or a bad thing. Was she breaking out the cage she'd been trapped in for five years or giving into new fears, afraid to be left alone?

Dr. Hopper had heard the details of Ghast's attack. He'd been called in to do a psych evaluation on Ghast (and wouldn't Gold love to know how that was going). The first thing he'd done had been to show up on their doorstep, a list of therapists willing to Skype with a patient in hand.

"I know I didn't do right by you," Hopper told Belle. "I failed as a professional and as a friend. It wouldn't be right for me to try to help you after that. You need someone you can trust. But, please, talk to someone. If you don't want to work with someone I've suggested, there are state resources that would help you find a qualified therapist."

Belle, after some further research of her own, had contacted one of the names on Hopper's list. The first session had gone well. Maybe it was helping. Gold hoped so.

What he did know was that she was less afraid when they got to the shop than she'd been even a week ago. Her eyes were open when she got out of the car and she could look around her. If she was still pale and trembling, he doubted anyone who wasn't holding her hand could tell how much she was shaking as they made the short walk from the Cadillac to the store.

He doubted Regina could tell how much of Belle's pallor now was from fear and how much was simply being a fair-skinned woman who'd barely seen the sun in five years.

"Izzy," Regina said, trying to recover from her surprise and put a sneer into the name. She threw a deadly look at Gold, _Why didn't you warn me?_

Gold gave her a kindly, beneficent look. _Why should I?_

Regina ignored him and turned her attention back to Belle. "I didn't know you were out and about."

"I thought it was time," Belle said. "And it's Mrs. Gold, now, Regina. I thought you'd heard."

"I've been busy," Regina said. "Not all of us have the luxury of ignoring what's going on in the world."

Belle nodded sympathetically. "I was afraid you might be overwhelmed when I stopped working for you, dealing with Henry by yourself. It broke my heart to leave him, but it was time to move on."

Gold chuckled. Regina _hadn't_ been ready to take care of Henry on her own. And it had been time for Belle to move on. Past time, really, by five years.

Belle went on, giving Regina a razor edged smile even Gold could envy. "That reminds me, I had a present for him." She went over to a display of books. Most of them were rare, leather bound antiques, but one was a colorful picture book. "Here it is," she said, handing it to Regina.

" _The Adventures of Isabel_?" Regina read, disbelieving.

"I know it may seem a bit young for him, but I heard about how he likes to find fairy tales that fit people in town and put them into them. I thought he might like this. I've marked one of my favorite bits." Belle looked Regina coldly in the eye and recited:

" _Once, in a night as black as pitch_

 _Isabel met a wicked old witch._

 _She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,"_

Gold could see the memories in Isabel's eyes, a night of pain and blood, warm red and icy white spilled out in a dark alley. Her voice turned arctic as she spoke the final line.

" _But she turned that witch into milk and drank her._ "

"Yes, do see that Henry gets it, Madam Mayor," Gold said, doing his best imitation of a slightly befuddled, grandfatherly type person who had _no idea_ there was anything besides kind feelings all around him. "I'd like to hear what he thinks of it."

Regina glared at both of them but said nothing. After all, as far as she knew, they were allies. It didn't stop her from slamming the door behind her as she marched out of the shop.


End file.
